


To Rattle the Stars

by GQD, Pangea



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Space, Alternate Universe - Treasure Planet Fusion, BAMF!Charles, Charles Is a Darling, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Illustrations, M/M, Minor Character Death, Space Pirates, questionable science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 04:36:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 70,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1674890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GQD/pseuds/GQD, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All his life Charles has chafed at the bonds of gravity that hold him bound to tiny and backwater Montressor, more at home in the sky on his solar surfer than on the ground, where he's stuck working at his stepfather's inn. His heart and soul yearn for the stars, and it's his dream to one day be a spacer and sail across the cosmos on adventure.</p><p>The opportunity comes sooner than he ever imagined one night when a ship crash-lands on the inn's front doorstep, carrying a dying pirate with a mysterious map and a dire warning: <em>beware the cyborg.</em></p><p>[A Disney's <em>Treasure Planet</em> AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [To Rattle the Stars 星之所在](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3557903) by [Analgisia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Analgisia/pseuds/Analgisia), [GQD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GQD/pseuds/GQD), [Pangea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea)



 

X

 

A smattering of stars splays out across the early evening sky, bright pinpoints of light that grow steadily brighter and more numerous as the light of the setting sun slowly diminishes, the entire galaxy slowly emerging overhead. The breeze is cool, picking up with the onset of night. It makes the solar sail flap in its tethers, and sends a chill through his bones.

Charles adjusts his grip on the sail’s long, thin bar, widening his stance on the narrow board of the surfer and pressing tentatively down on the single pedal with his left heel, revving the small, two cylinder engine attached at the back. With the sunlight quickly fading--it always seems to go faster near the end, he thinks with chagrin—so too is his power source, the solar cells that make up his sail also growing dark.

He has just enough power to make it back. If he takes a shortcut.

The way he’d come to his current vantage point, floating high above the rocky canyon depths below, had been long and winding, skirting through narrow passageways and weaving over and around rock piles and formations had taken him the better part of the afternoon, even with his usual reckless speed and wild abandon that he always surfs with. That had been when the sun was out, high overhead, and providing a continuous and unfailing power supply. The shortcut will take him above the twisting canyon path but also straight through an old construction site that’s still active, machinery slowly clanking away and providing enough obstacle on its own.

On any other day, Charles would love to surf through the construction, testing his skill against close calls and near misses with the huge steelworks. No obstacle is too daunting, not when he feels more at home in the sky than on land. But tonight, already low on power and visibility dropping, it’s a risk. The site is a strict no-fly zone, and Charles has had his fair share of run ins with the authorities over the area—but that just makes it more fun.

Now, though, he doesn’t have a choice, unless he wants to be stranded out in the wasteland for the night without any supplies. He’ll just have to hope the police have better things to be doing than patrolling the area.

He slams his heel down on the small pedal, sparking his engine once more and shooting forward across the sky, his sail catching on the breeze and adding to his speed. His hair whips back wildly in the wind, and the force of air on his face makes it hard to breathe for a moment, pressing back down against his lungs but Charles lets out a laugh of sheer delight at the sensation, throwing back his head in joy as he grips the bar with both hands and leans back until he’s flying nearly horizontal, adrenaline pumping.

The rocky tops of the canyons are smooth and flat, so he makes good time as he blitzes through the air above them. It’s already dark by the time he reaches the construction zone, the sun sunken fully beneath the far-off horizon, so he can only just barely make out the edges of steel girders and infrastructure, and the thick, heavy arms of the building machines.

Charles tightens his grip on his surfer and leans forward into the wind.

He built his first surfer by himself when he was eight. He’s since graduated from his clunky first creation, but Charles took to the sky as easy as breathing and some days his feet hardly touch the ground at all. The direction and motions of his board are part of him, something that he feels rather than steers, so skating past the first few looming obstructions in his path is nothing. He leans into each motion, guiding his surfer in a graceful, arcing path, grinning as his skirts perilous danger by inches. He nearly crashes into a huge, cement pipe held suspended in midair by a crane but pulls up at the last second, turning it into a spiraling somersault as he spins, letting loose a wild, triumphant cry.

After that he forgets about getting home entirely, absorbed by how many tricks he can do without getting himself killed. He flips himself completely upside down and stamps down on the pedal, weaving through towering stacks of girders at breakneck speeds, and the flips himself rightside up again just in time to grind the bottom of his board against a long conveyor belt, flipping his sail closed and sliding down it sideways before kicking off and taking to the air again, sail unfurling again with a loud snap.

He’s having entirely too much of a good time, feeling as light and free as he’s ever felt, which is of course when out of nowhere two sirens start to blare, blue and red flashing lights lighting up the dark behind him, and an emotionless, robotic voice calls out, “Halt!”

Charles lets his surfer glide to a stop, tipping his head forward to smack lightly against the solar sail, leaving a smudge on one of the cells. “Shit.”

X

 

 

X

The Marko Inn is a small, homely establishment situated on the edge of cliff overlooking a vast, empty chasm of open air, the ground far below usually covered by clouds that give the impression of an ocean. Also adding to the seaside atmosphere are the long, rickety docks that extend out into midair, where several airships of varying sizes are tied while several larger ships are moored further out, hovering serenely and unmoving in midair, even with the crisp breeze.

Montressor is a small industrial planet, with a lot of mine work and not much else. It’s a traveler’s pitstop, and even then they don’t see too many of them passing through, not with the extremely active and far less desolate Crescentia spaceport orbiting the planet like a moon. Trudging up the long pathway towards the inn between two hulking robocops, Charles can think of hundreds of reasons why hopping on the next shuttle up to the spaceport is a better idea than facing what is sure to follow the moment they step inside.

It’s a full house tonight, especially as the first floor of the inn serves as a small pub, the twin chimneys on the roof puffing out continuous streams of smoke. The police lead him right up to the front door and Charles can’t help but wince a little when they throw it open with a bang.

“Mr. Marko,” one of the robots says, and everyone in the room grows quiet.

Charles has a split second to take in the various guests seated at the tables, their expressions a varying mix of surprise and alarm, but it doesn’t take long for his gaze to cut through the previously warm, cozy atmosphere to land on his stepfather, who straightens from where he’d been leaning against the side of the bar talking to one of his regulars, striding over to them.

“Good evening,” he says, politely enough, but the look he sends Charles could probably boil water.

Charles smiles brightly, falsely cheerful. “Well, thanks so much for the lift, chaps,” he says, stepping further inside and brushing the cold, metal hand on his shoulder away, “I really appreciate the—”

“Not so fast.” The hand closes around his shoulder again and yanks him to a halt, and Charles resists the urge to heave a sigh. “Mr. Marko. We apprehended your son—”

“Stepson,” Charles mutters under his breath.

“—flying a solar vehicle in a restricted area, which is Moving Violation 9-0-4, section 15, paragraph—uh—”

“Six,” Charles says tonelessly.

The robot slowly swivels its tiny pin head to stare at him. “Thank you.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Don’t mention it.”

“Charles,” Kurt says tightly. He’s only just barely holding back his anger, one fist clenched while his eyes flash dangerously, building up his rage that will eventually erupt like a volcano and cause just about the same amount of damage. Charles merely averts his gaze, looking down at the worn, frayed rug that serves as a doormat for guests to wipe their feet on.

“As you are aware, sir, this constitutes a violation of his probation,” the other robot continues, stiff and straight on Charles’ other side.

“Yes, I am aware,” Kurt says, narrowing his eyes as he stalks forward. “I don’t honestly know what to say, officers. I’ve tried my hand at everything to keep him in line, but I’m afraid I’m at my wit’s end with his misbehavior and—”

Someone clears their throat, and Charles lifts his head in time to see Hank McCoy rising from his table, untucking the napkin on his front carefully as he makes his way over. The glow of the crackling fire in the fireplace turns some of Hank’s blue fur purple, and add shadows to his sharp canines that Charles knows makes the locally-known astrophysicist look more intimidating than his personality actually is.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” he says, addressing the officers rather than Kurt, “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. My name is Dr. Henry McCoy, noted astrophysicist. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” When all he receives are blank, empty stares, he ruffles the fur on the back of his neck sheepishly. “No? Well, um, anyway, I’m a regular here at the pub for dinner, you see, so I know Charles very well. I’ve offered to take him on as my assistant hundreds of times, you see, but Mr. Marko won’t hear of it, which is rather silly, I think, as it would be a good learning experience and put Charles in a strict, regimented environment where—”

“You have no place butting in to this conversation, doctor,” Kurt snaps, eyes blazing, “you’re not his father—”

“Neither are you,” Charles points out loudly.

“Enough, Charles,” Kurt warns, flipping him a swift glare before turning back to Hank. “I will not allow him to go gallivanting off with the likes of you, as you’ll do nothing more than fill his head with stars and other useless, flighty ideals and allow him to run even more wild—”

“Useless?” Hank sputters, drawing himself up to his full height, which is rather impressively almost even with the robots’ towering frames. “Sir, our entire society is based upon our knowledge of the stars and the means by which we travel between them—”

“And I’ll not have talk of it at this inn,” Kurt snarls, lifting one meaty fist to point a finger in Hank’s face. “So I suggest you butt out of this matter and return to your table, or I’ll have you tossed out and banned.”

Hank huffs out an indignant breath but turns to go, shooting Charles a quick apologetic look. _You tried_ , Charles mouths in return with a small shake of his head. He could’ve told Hank from the start that bringing up space travel is an extremely bad idea in Kurt’s presence.

“Due to repeated violations of statute 15C, we have impounded his vehicle,” one of the officers continues once Kurt has turned back around. “Any more slip ups will result in a one-way ticket to the correctional facility.”

“Thank you, officers,” Kurt says, wrapping one hand around Charles’ biceps tightly when the robot releases him. “It won’t happen again.” He glares at Charles as if to drive the words home.

“We see his type all the time, sir,” the other robot says, shaking its head, and Charles would laugh at being judged by an oversized tin bucket if Kurt didn’t already have such a tight grip on him. “Wrong choices. Dead-enders. Losers.”

 _Fuck off_ , Charles thinks fiercely as the two cops bid Kurt goodnight and roll back out the door, _you don’t know a thing about me._

“Alright, folks, show’s over,” Kurt announces loudly to his staring patrons, and abruptly the inn goes back to being filled with soft chatter and the clink of silverware against plates as everyone returns to their meals. Kurt keeps his grip on Charles’ arm, dragging him past all the tables and through the swinging double doors of the kitchen, obscuring them safely from view. “Are you trying to get sent to jail, Charles, because the next time you’re caught breaking the law _again_ , I’m not going to stick my neck out for you and stop them from hauling you off.”

 

 

“Do it then,” Charles snaps, yanking his arm out of his stepfather’s grip. “Anywhere is better than here, at this point.”

“You’d better not let your mother hear you saying that,” Kurt says, brows pulling together to make his expression thunderous.

At that, Charles has to laugh bitterly. “It’s not like she pays attention anyway.”

Sharon Marko is a shadow of who Lady Sharon Xavier used to be, spending most of her days buried in the bottom of a wine bottle. Charles knows logically in his head—and in his heart—that she mourns for Brian Xavier, her first husband and Charles’ real father, just as much as Charles does, but some days it’s hard not to wonder if she misses the Xavier wealth more, which had dried up altogether after Brian’s passing.

Between his distant mother and his overbearing stepfather, it’s no wonder that Charles takes so often to the skies. Anything to get away. Anything to breathe fresh air unclouded by loss.

“I don’t know why you won’t let me go work for Hank,” Charles says abruptly, his voice flat. Normally he wouldn’t bother provoking Kurt even more than he usually does, but tonight he’s feeling up for an argument, still simmering angrily about the injustice of the violation the cops had slapped him with again, and the confiscation of his solar surfer. “You know it’d get me out of your hair and it’d keep me too busy to get into trouble. Not that I actually _try_.”

“Absolutely not,” Kurt answers, with a finality that makes Charles grind his teeth. “I’ve already lost one son to the hairbrained notion of traveling the stars—”

“Hank doesn’t travel,” Charles interrupts in exasperation, trying not to let his voice rise to a shout. Angry as he is, they’ve given the people eating at the tables tonight enough of a show already. “He’s an astrophysicist, not a spacer! The closest he ever gets to stars is staring at them through a telescope!”

“One thing can only lead to another,” Kurt says darkly, shaking his head. “No. I won’t allow it. There’s plenty of work to do around here as it is, now that you don’t have a solar surfer to go flying off on and getting yourself into trouble with the authorities over and over again.”

“You keep me here under such tight reign,” Charles says stiffly, his anger bright and hot inside him like a radioactive star, pulsing with each word, “I feel like I’m being smothered. No wonder Cain hopped on a ship the first chance he got. Maybe I will too.”

Kurt’s face goes red with rage, and he takes a threatening step forward. “Like it or not, I am your father now,” he growls, “and what I say goes under this roof, and I don’t want to hear any more talk about stars or space or travel, do I make myself clear?”

Charles wants very badly to point out that Kurt is the one who brought up space travel in the first place, but he figures that he’s pushed his luck enough tonight already. “Transparently,” he says flatly, and then slips past him, heading for the back door of the kitchen that leads out to the docks.

“There’s a whole stack of dishes here that need to be washed,” Kurt calls after him, but Charles pushes his way through the door and out of the warm kitchen and into the cool night.

Montressor is boiling hot by day but freezing at night, a drastic, daily change that the locals have long since grown accustomed to. Charles barely notes the cold as he strides down the worn, sun-bleached planks of the dock, going all the way down to the very end and managing not to trip over any extra line from the ships tied up along the rickety length. Montressor is lonely at night, he thinks distantly as he sinks down to sit on the very edge of the end of the dock, hanging his legs over side to dangle above the dark void below. Its inhabitants are all scattered few and far between, tiny ants on the surface of a barren rock, and the only travelers they get are those too shabby and poor to afford spending the night in Crescentia.

He has to admit, however, that it makes up for it with the view—no light pollution from below means that none of the stars are blocked out, and now with the sun fully gone all of them are out in force, lighting up the sky as they twinkle gently overhead, some near and some far, a beautiful spectrum that leaves Charles nearly breathless with wonder every time. There’s so much out there, waiting to be discovered, but instead here he sits on a tiny planet on the outer edges of the galaxy, stuck with dish duty.

He can hear faint voices back at the inn as people bid each other goodnight, finished with their meals at the pub and beginning to head home. There are sure to be even more dishes now piled up by the sink in the kitchen but Charles can’t bring himself to move just yet, taking refuge in the relative quiet, letting his anger with Kurt and the police slowly cool and dissipate until he feels calm again.

The ships moored further out away from the cliffs have lit up lights of their own, giving off a different kind of shine as they bob slowly up and down on an invisible sea, enchanting in their own way. If Charles still had his solar surfer, he’d coast out to one of them tomorrow and ask if they had need for a new cabin boy. As it is, his solar surfer is gone and it will be months until he can scrounge up enough scrap parts when Kurt isn’t looking to build a new one. He’s officially grounded.

The thought makes his skin crawl, his chest going tight, feeling trapped and claustrophobic. He knows with every fiber of his being that he doesn’t belong on the ground. He _doesn’t_. He has to take a few deep breaths, kicking his legs restlessly into the empty air before the sensation subsides, leaving him weary as he tilts his head back up to look at the stars again, pretending for a moment that he’s out floating amongst them, light and weightless and bound by nothing.

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye, which makes him turn his head sharply, squinting through the dark. One of the lights in the sky overhead is growing steadily closer, wavering back and forth until he realizes that it’s not a star at all but a ship, and a badly damaged one at that. Charles scrambles to his feet in shock as the ship roars past low overhead with thick, black smoke trailing through the air behind it.

The acrid smell of burning metal fills his nose and he nearly shouts when the ship almost grazes the roof of the inn, missing it by what looks like inches from Charles’ viewpoint but in reality is probably several yards. The ship disappears from view after that, too low to the ground now for him to see past the inn, so he hears rather than watches it come to a crash landing but he’s already running back down the dock by the time the sound reaches his ears.

He skirts around the side of the building, picking his way carefully but quickly across the loose gravel, and then sprints out in front, eyes searching through the dark—there. The ship has crashed at the bottom of the small hill that the inn sits on top of, and without hesitation Charles goes barreling down the short slope, nearly rolling his ankle twice by the time he reaches the bottom.

The crashed ship has an odd design, with a single, bulbous capsule making up its main hull and body, and only a few haphazardly situated masts for sails, the booms flung in all directions. Most of the sails have already burned away, and the tall flames of the fire are licking the side of the hull when Charles stumbles up to the single hatch that serves as a door to the inside, knocking loudly on the thick glass.

“Hello?” he calls loudly, coughing and waving smoke away from his face. “Is anyone still alive in there? Hello?”

He jumps back with a small yelp when a large, clawed hand suddenly smacks against the glass from within the capsule, and backs away further as the hatch pops open with another billow of smoke, deep, rasping coughs echoing from inside. An alien tumbles out of the burning ship, salamander-like with a long, thick tail and a grizzled, squashed face, his nostrils flaring wide as he fumbles around on the ground for the small chest that had spilled out with him.

“Sir, are you alright?” Charles asks, stepping forward with concern, and as soon as the alien sees him his hand darts out from within the folds of his thick, heavy trenchcoat and grabs Charles by the front of his shirt, dragging him closer.

“He’s coming,” he says, his breath a smokey wash across Charles’ face. Now that he’s so close, Charles can see the feverish light in the old alien’s eyes, and the rotting smell of dire injury that has been left too long unattended. “I can hear him—those gears and gyros clicking and whirring like the devil himself!” He breaks off to cough, great shuddering hacks that wrack his entire body, and he releases his hold on Charles to clutch at his ribs.

“Sir, you need a doctor right away,” Charles says a little shakily, taking a step back to put himself out of range in case he tries to grab at him again, “you’re very badly hurt.”

“No, no,” the alien mumbles, crouching down protectively over the chest at his feet, “he’s after me chest. That fiendish cyborg and his band of cutthroats, chasing me across half the galaxy! But he can’t have it. He’ll have to pry it from old Billy Bones’ cold, dead fingers before I—” He coughs again, a deep wet rattle in his lungs as he half-collapses over the chest, wheezing for breath.

Charles swallows, and then steels himself before darting forward. “Here,” he says, grasping at Bones’ left arm and crouching to get it around his shoulders, “let’s get you inside so we can call someone for help. Come this way.”

He heaves Bones up to his feet, staggering a little under the alien’s weight, but together they manage to work out a slow, awkward gait up the slope towards the bright lights of the inn. _Kurt’s going to love this_ , Charles thinks wryly, thinking of the burning ship wreckage that they’re leaving behind. Bones’ other arm hangs limply, claws closed tightly around one of the handles of his chest, dragging its dead weight along behind them.

It takes an age and a half to make it up the hill, and Charles spends most of it panting too hard to make much small talk while Bones rambles off and on about his dreaded cyborg pursuer, head lolling heavily on Charles’ shoulder. The finally make it to the front door, and by that point Charles doesn’t care about avoiding causing another scene and kicks it open so they can duck inside.

The warmth of the fire is almost uncomfortable now that he’s sweating, but fortunately it seems like the pub has mostly emptied out, except for Hank, who looks up from the thick book he has propped open against his empty plate, startled, and Sharon Xavier, who has apparently deemed tonight fit enough to descend from her room above, sitting at the empty bar in one of her old cocktail dresses, sipping slowly at a glass of amber liquid.

“Charles Francis Xavier,” she says without inflection, utterly unruffled as she sets her glass down with a sharp clink on the bartop, “what in the great skies above do you think you’re doing?”

“Mother,” Charles greets her awkwardly, and then nearly tips forward and faceplants on the floorboards when Bones slides down off his shoulder in a full collapse. “His ship just crashed down the hill and he’s hurt very badly.” He looks up at her from where he’s knelt beside Bones’ heaving body. “I couldn’t just leave him.”

Sharon regards him coolly, unblinking even as Kurt bursts out of his office off the side of the common room at the sound of commotion, still holding a stack of dinner receipts. “What’s going on out here?”

“Charles brought home a stray,” Sharon says absently, lifting her glass to take another sip. Her voice suddenly grows sharp, cracking like a whip. “Fetch the medkit, darling, I don’t want to see blood get on the flooring.”

Kurt only gapes like a fish for a moment before hurrying off. Charles gives his mother a small, faint smile, well-versed in Sharon Xavier’s particular brand of caring, before a clawed hand paws at him weakly, drawing his attention back to the alien dying on the floor.

“My chest, lad,” Bones whispers, pointing towards the discarded box that sits innocuously on the floor a few feet away. “Bring it here, bring it here.”

Charles grabs the handle and pulls it closer, scraping across the floorboards in a manner that no doubt has his mother wincing. “It’s here,” he says soothingly, “it’s right here, see?”

Bones props himself up on one elbow, pressing his claws against the buttons of the lock and tapping out a quick passcode. The lock clicks, and the lid springs open, well-oiled hinges soundless as the inside contents of the chest are revealed. Charles leans forward slightly despite himself, curious to see what all the fuss is about.

He’d been expecting something closer to gold or precious jewels, but instead is met with the disappointing sight of a small, clunky-looking sphere with strange, intricate runes carved at random across its bronze surface. Bones picks up the sphere with shaking hands, clutching it close to his chest.

“He’ll be coming soon,” he says, staring down at the metal ball in his hands, “but we can’t let him find this.”

“Who’s coming soon?” Charles asks, brow furrowed, and then jumps when Bones lunges forward suddenly, grabbing him by the front of his shirt again and pulling him in close.

“The cyborg,” he whispers in Charles’ ear, every hair on the back of Charles’ neck standing on end and every nerve in his body alight like a livewire, “ _beware the cyborg_.” His voice fades on a soft hiss, his grip on Charles going slack as the last of his strength drains from his body and he drops down to the floor with one last, quiet sigh.

“Oh my god,” Hank says in distress, just as Kurt rushes back into the room carrying the now obsolete medkit.

Charles stares with wide eyes at the metal sphere that fits perfectly in the palm of his broad, workman’s hands, wondering what exactly it is he holds and if it really is worth a man’s life. Kurt is speaking, saying something about having a dead body in the inn but Charles isn’t listening, all the noise in the room dimmed to a dull roar as he stares at glittering runes and strange, jagged lines.

He looks up sharply when a new noise interrupts, the sound of a huge, low-flying ship coming from directly overhead of the inn, a bright spotlight shining in through the windows and momentarily blinding him.

“What the bloody hell is going on?” Kurt demands as the rumble of the engine shakes the building, picture frames and table settings rattling loudly.

“Tell them we’ve closed for the night,” Sharon says with another sip of her drink, “and that we’ve no vacancy left.”

Charles pushes himself to his feet and walks to the closest window. He can hear the ship’s engines sputtering out and by the sound of it, whoever it is has landed right in front of the building. The window’s holosetting is currently set to a sunny field of flowers, but when he risks a peek through the hologram and out into the dark night, he can make out a large group of heavily armed aliens slouching their way towards the inn.

“We have to go,” he says quickly, backing away from the window and hurrying over to his mother to help her up to her feet. “I don’t know who they are, but they’re definitely not friendly.”

Kurt puffs out his chest. “I will _not_ be intimidated by the likes of ruffians in my own establishment, and they have another thing coming if they think—”

A plasma blast shatters the window and Kurt’s speech dissolves into a scream, right as another blast blows a hole the size of a human head in the door. Sharon tucks herself firmly into Charles’ side and allows herself to be led across the room to where Kurt stands gaping.

“Charles!” Hank calls at the foot of the staircase that leads up to the inn rooms. “Come this way!”

“Come on!” Charles shouts at his stepfather, and then leads his mother after Hank, running up the stairs as fast as Sharon’s heels will allow. Kurt scrambles after them, all talk of making a stand completely forgotten.

Another shot of plasma hits the chandelier, knocking it off the ceiling and sending it crashing to the floor with a burst of flames. Charles has just made it to the top of the staircase when the door is kicked open, a tall, lean shadow falling across the floor and stretching out across Bones’ limp body as someone comes to a stop on the threshold. Outside the jeers and shouts of more intruders grow louder and louder, accompanied by the shattering of more glass.

“Where is it?” someone roars as they— _pirates_ , Charles’ mind supplies—pour into the building, ripping open drawers and throwing the contents down to the floor heedless of the damage. Within seconds the entire first floor has been completely ransacked, Bones’ body kicked aside.

“Check upstairs,” orders a cooler, calmer voice, cutting above the noise in a way that only those with total and absolute authority can attain. “I want this place turned upside down.”

Charles takes that as his cue to turn and run down the short hallway, ducking out of sight before any of the pirates can see him. Hank, Kurt, and Sharon are already at the dead end that doesn’t lead into any of the rooms, and instead are gathered at the large, round porthole window that Hank pries open after a moment of desperate fumbling.

“They’re coming!” Charles says breathlessly, skidding to a halt. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

Hank leans out the window, dangerously far. “Beast, there you are, boy!” he calls down to his two-legged slug-like creature that he uses to pull his carriage. “Stay right there, don’t move!” He climbs up onto the ledge and offers a hand down to Sharon, pulling her up beside him. “We’re going to have to jump,” he explains, as Charles hears footsteps thundering up the stairs, “but don’t worry, I’m an expert at physical sciences so just—”

“Go now!” Charles shouts, and Hank is startled enough to obey, both the astrophysicist and Sharon dropping down out of sight. Charles and Kurt climb up next and throw themselves down without hesitating, falling down into the cushy seat of Hank’s carriage below.

“Go, Beast, go!” Hank cries, snapping the reigns, and the carriage takes off, jolting and jostling them as they speed away from the burning inn, escaping before the pirates notice.

“That was quite a bit more excitement than I’d ever care to have again,” Sharon says calmly, cool as a cucumber as she settles herself more properly into the seat.

Kurt whirls around to face Charles as he sits up. “What have you brought down on us, boy?” he shouts, spittle flying. “Do you understand what you’ve done?! We’re ruined! _I’m_ ruined!”

“You can stay with me for now until all this gets sorted,” Hank offers quietly, the motions of the carriage smoothing out as they emerge onto the main road. Beast maintains his steady trot, speeding them away from the wreckage of the inn, the glow of the fire growing dimmer and dimmer in the distance. “But now is hardly the time to lay blame.”

Charles slumps back in his seat, too tired to even protest what Kurt has said or thank Hank for his peacemaking intervention. He digs the sphere out of his coat pocket where he’d jammed it earlier, fingers closing around the cool metal as he examines it in the near-dark. It’s strange, but for a second he thinks he imagines it glowing, but when he blinks it’s nothing but dark metal that meets his gaze.

They’ve gone through a lot of trouble for this strange ball that looks like a child’s toy, he thinks as he slides further down in the seat, tossing it idly back and forth between his hands, and he wonders if it’ll really turn out to be worth it.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, I used to sail.

 

X

 

Hank’s estate isn’t very far down the road, Charles knows, having been there a few times over the years to help the astrophysicist with equipment deliveries when Kurt allowed it. The journey seems to take longer in the dark, the pumping adrenaline from fleeing pirates slowly wearing down so that by the time Hank reigns Beast in to a stop in front of his old family home, Charles is nodding off where he sits.

Hank inherited his family’s mansion and trust fund at a very young age, when his parents were killed in an unfortunate shuttle accident while Hank was away at university. As the sole remaining member of his family, everything was left to him alone. Charles likes Hank’s house, because while it is old and drafty and a tiny bit lonely despite its huge size and grandeur, Hank has also outfitted it completely to his tastes.

The furry scientist leads them to his personal library, where a tall, roaring fire crackles merrily on the hearth. Bookcases cover every single wall from floor to high ceiling overhead, packed full with books of every imaginable subject, though of course, Charles knows from experience browsing the shelves, there’s a heavy emphasis on the stars. Charles could happily spend a small eternity in this room alone, and that’s not even getting to Hank’s observatory or lab.

“Please, sit, Mrs. Marko,” Hank says, pulling up one of the cushy armchairs closer to the fire for Sharon to sink down into elegantly. “Mr. Marko, I can direct you to my telephone so you can make the proper calls.”

“Yes, of course,” Kurt agrees, somewhat listlessly. He looks tired, as if his shock and anger have finally worn him down as the chain of events and their consequences sink in. Hank leads him off, taking him out of the room, and Charles can’t claim that he’s particularly sad to see him go.

“Are you well, Mother?” he asks Sharon instead, moving to stand by the armrest of her chair. Even from here the fire warms him immediately, burning away the chill from their carriage ride.

“I am quite fine,” Sharon assures him coolly, arching one graceful eyebrow. If for nothing else, Charles can always admire his mother for her calm collection and stiff upper lip in the face of anything—anything, at least, that doesn’t have to do with the death of her first husband. “I hear you had a run-in with the police again, Charles. I honestly don’t understand you, do you care nothing for the family name?”

“It’s hardly a family name if I’m the only one who carries it,” Charles points out.

“All the more reason for you to leave it untainted.”

There are a dozen cutting replies that Charles formulates in his head that he could use as barbed response, but instead he sighs wearily. “I don’t want to talk about this right now,” he says flatly. “Kurt’s inn just burned down and we are once again homeless.”

“That Hank fellow said he would take us in, although,” Sharon says, casting a look around the library as if expecting something to jump out at them at any moment, “he is a bit odd.”

Charles turns away so he can rolls his eyes without her seeing. “We can stay for a day, maybe two, but this is hardly a permanent solution, Mother,” he says, trying to keep most of his exasperation out of his voice. “We can’t just assume or take advantage of Hank’s hospitality.”

“Hm,” Sharon answers noncommittally, and Charles doesn’t need to be facing her to know she’s making one of her haughty expressions.

To keep himself from falling into arguing with her, he pulls the sphere out of his pocket again. Now that he has good light, and isn’t being attacked by pirates, he can see that beyond the mysterious runes there are smaller, thinner lines zigzagging across the sphere’s surface, making it almost appear as if there are buttons to press.

“Well, he’s contacted the police,” Hank announces, striding back into the room, “but I have a feeling that the pirates will be long gone before any of them get there. I’m sorry,” he says, looking to Sharon first but her gaze remains steadfastly on the fire so he turns to Charles instead, “I know that this is just more trouble that you didn’t need.”

“Can you read these runes?” Charles asks in lieu of answering, holding the sphere out.

Hank lifts it curiously, examining the markings intently. “No,” he says, sounding surprised, “these don’t look familiar at all. Is this what the pirates were after?”

“I guess so,” Charles says with a shrug, “but I have no idea what it is. It looks like an antique more than anything else. Maybe it’s horribly expensive and we can sell it.” He smiles weakly. “Then all our problems would go away.”

“I’m almost sure that it seems familiar _somehow_ ,” Hank mutters, handing the sphere back and moving over to one of the long, sturdy tables where open books are strewn everywhere across the surface. He pulls one towards himself and begins leafing through the pages. “I swear I’ve seen it before.”

Charles turns the sphere over in his hands. With a shrug, he tries pressing the buttons, tapping out a quick pattern and then giving it a quick twist, making a startled noise when the sphere suddenly erupts with light, expanding outward from the sphere and shrouding the entire room with—

“It’s a map,” Charles says in awe, looking at the wild array of star systems and planets that circulate idly through the room, projected out by the sphere in three dimensions.

“Incredible,” Hank says, eyes flickering around the room rapidly. “This is our galaxy. That’s odd, isn’t it, if the pirates were only after a map of the galaxy. They could’ve picked up one anywhere, though admittedly not one as fancy as this.”

“It has to be a map to somewhere,” Charles says, excitement building in his chest like a soap bubble, hovering precariously and shimmering slightly with the urge to pop. “Maybe it leads to treasure!”

“Treasure,” Hank sputters with a small laugh, shaking his head, “just because they’re pirates—”

Even as he speaks, the sphere begins to glow again and the map shifts, swirling through the stars and slowly zooming in on one system in particular, a planet slowly enlarging in the middle of the room and hovering before their disbelieving eyes.

 

 

“Treasure Planet,” Charles says, because he would recognize the legendary planet with two offset debris rings anywhere, “this is a map to Treasure Planet.”

“Impossible,” Sharon says, speaking up from across the room, “it’s just a myth.”

Until now, Charles had felt the same. Everyone grows up with bedtime stories about the fabled Treasure Planet, the secret treasure horde of the notorious pirate, Captain Nathaniel Flint. The story goes that, bloodthirsty and greedy, Captain Flint has an entire planet full of treasure from the thousands of ships that he’s robbed and destroyed, always appearing without warning and vanishing without a trace once he’s taken his loot. It’s fantastical and makes for a thrilling tale—Charles can still faintly remember begging his father to read him the story one more time, _please just one more time before you go_ —

There are fanatics and crackpots who spend their entire lives searching for Treasure Planet, convinced that it must be real, but no one has ever come close. Until now. Charles cups the sphere with both hands and knows in his bones that this is real. This map will lead them to untold riches and fame.

...If only they had a ship. His shimmering bubble of excitement wavers, threatening to pop out of existence as reality sets in.

“We should go,” Hank says, startling Charles with his vehemence. “Think of the opportunity! No one has been to that planet aside from Flint, so it’s completely uncharted territory! All my life I’ve been waiting for the right adventure and _this_ is it! I can feel it. I can charter a ship and crew, I have enough money and what else am I spending it on?” He begins to pace back and forth, talking louder and louder in his excitement. “I’ve spent too long just looking at the stars from afar, and I want to travel them, really take them in on close-up, and I’m not talking about a telescope setting. And Treasure Planet!” He laughs in amazement. “I would’ve never believed it existed, but now, with this map—” He breaks off, coughing once. “I mean, of course, Charles, the map is yours. It’s up to you what to do with it.”

“Hank, I…” Charles gives a small laugh of his own, shaking his head. “I would love more than anything to go with you and find Treasure Planet. But…” He looks over to his mother, who regards them both silently from her chair.

“Dr. McCoy,” Sharon says, “if I might have a private conversation with my son.”

“Of course, Mrs. Marko,” Hank says, glancing at Charles briefly, “I’ll just—um, I’ll just be out here—if you need me—” He hurries out of the library, tall oak door thumping shut behind him.

“I want to go, Mother,” Charles says at once, squaring his shoulders, “and I don’t care what Kurt says. I’m not afraid of space travel like he is, and I’m not going to disappear like Cain did. If this map really does lead to Treasure Planet, then I can bring back enough gold to rebuild the inn a hundred times over.”

“You’ve never taken to Kurt,” Sharon says musingly after a small pause during which she regards him unreadably, and Charles feels guilty in a vague, nebulous way for making the observation of how surprising it is to see her so sober.

“I’m not sure why you did,” he answers honestly, deflating a little.

Sharon scoffs, though she still manages to make the sound ladylike. “I only ever married him for your sake, you know. After Brian...the money dried up faster than a puddle on this planet, and Kurt seemed like a safe option, his income stable with the inn.” She sighs, a soft puff of breath. “Well. That’s been tossed completely out the window now, hasn’t it?”

“Treasure Planet can make us rich again,” Charles says quietly, “you wouldn’t have to worry about money ever again.”

“Darling, you may think me shallow and I do like my creature comforts, I will admit, but I could hardly care about the money itself,” Sharon drawls, looking him up and down with her sharp, assessing gaze. “I just wanted you—my son, mine and Brian’s son, to not grow up wanting. Even with Brian gone, I still wanted you to have all the same opportunities that you might’ve had.”

Charles swallows, crossing over to her chair and taking her hand. “I’m sorry,” he says, a little shakily, “I’m afraid I’ve had the wrong impression for a long time.”

Sharon smiles faintly, there and gone in the blink of an eye. “I hardly encouraged anything better,” she says, voice barely audible over the crackling flames. “I still miss your father more than anything. I don’t believe I will ever stop.”

Charles squeezes her hand tightly. “I do too,” he admits, “that’s why I’ve never taken to Kurt. He’s not my father. He’s too overbearing because he’s trying to use me as a replacement for _his_ son, but I refuse to use him as a replacement for _my_ father, so please. Let me do this.”

“I would never dream of stopping you,” Sharon answers, gently detaching her hand from Charles’ grip. “But promise me this, Charles—go because you want to, not because you think _I_ want you to for the sake of finding mythical treasure.”

Charles smiles a little despite himself. “You just don’t think it’s real.”

“No,” Sharon says frankly, “I don’t. But.” She lifts her gaze to his face again, studying him thoughtfully. It feels like the first time she’s truly looked at him in a long time. “It’s about time for you to go on a wild adventure. Perhaps have your heart broken once or twice. There’s more to the galaxy than getting slapped with violations for surfing through construction sites, and I will not have my only son’s legacy be the record-holder for the most speeding tickets on this side of Montressor.”

Charles laughs, his eyes embarrassingly damp as he leans down to give his mother a hug. “I _will_ come back. And I won’t let you down.”

“You and Dr. McCoy had best go before Kurt catches wind of your plans,” Sharon says, but one of her hands lifts to pat Charles gently on the back. “And darling, I don’t think that you could, even if you tried.”

X

Crescentia is shaped, fittingly, as a crescent moon, and is probably the closest thing to a major city here on the outer edges of the galaxy. As soon as Charles steps off the tiny shuttle that has transported him and Hank up from Montressor, he’s nearly overwhelmed by all the sights and sounds of the bustling spaceport.

They’ve arrived at the central hub of the port, a huge, squat building with a dome-shaped roof that people hurry in and out of, all going in a hundred separate directions doing a hundred separate things. Charles sticks close to Hank as they cross the echoing marble floor, the blue scientist’s height and size making up for Charles’ lack of both and serving as a good means to clear the way through the crowds.

Directly outside the building is a long wharf doubling as an enormous open market, merchants shouting out their wares and prices over each other, all goods laid out in dazzling displays on wagons or barrels; fruits and vegetables and meats and fish and spices and dozens of other things on view for any passerby. Steam rises from several stalls, the sound and smell of something sizzling filling his nose and making his mouth water, suddenly regretful about skipping breakfast. Charles’ eyes can’t find a single thing to focus on, darting around in rapture at all the contained chaos, marveling at the day’s wares—some of which he recognizes, and some of which he’s never seen or heard of before in his life.

Beyond the wharf are seemingly endless rows of dock after dock, all packed tightly with ships of every shape and size, hovering still and at ease in their berths. Some are massive, with two or even three masts towering up high over shining decks, sails furled for now but no less impressive for the amount of rigging lines tied everywhere in preparation for launch. They pass one hulking behemoth of a ship that takes up one entire side of the dock by itself, with _five_ massively thick masts that Charles stares at in wonder, trying to imagine how such a vessel ever generates enough power to move.

The docks are filled with spacers, coming in all shapes and sizes and colors, who call out to one another in so many different languages that Charles’ head spins, as if all the sights and smells of the port weren’t already enough. Thick coils of rope—which, Hank explains, it’s called only called _rope_ when it’s unemployed cordage, as right now when it’s coiled up, and otherwise when it’s in use the proper term is _line_ —are stacked along the edges of the dock, some of the fibers braided together to be thicker than Charles is, in piles that are nearly taller than Hank. Some ships are in the process of unloading, hundreds of barrels being rolled down gangways by sweating, grunting spacers and stacked high to wait for wherever next they’re to be carted off to. Another ship has a crane unloading the huge, rectangular cargo containers that are stacked five across and four high on its deck, thick steel cables straining under the weight.

Overhead, smaller cruiser ships zip by, weaving in and around the masts and rigging of the larger ships and darting past each other, tiny bees buzzing around a busy hive. Like in the central hub, everyone is coming and going and so busy that Charles wonders how it’s even possible to keep track of it all, and he’s so busy gazing around that he nearly trips over a thick dock cleat wrapped tightly with three different lines.

“Charles, wait for me!” Hank calls, fumbling with the bulky trunk he’s packed for the journey and momentarily trapped by the passing of two spacers carrying a large board stacked with barrels between them.

“Come on, Hank,” Charles answers with a laugh. He only has one small sack thrown over his shoulder, and the sphere tucked safely into his pocket. “We’re nearly there. I think it’s two docks down from this one.”

“I’ll be glad once we get there,” Hank says, hurrying to rejoin Charles once the spacers are safely passed. “All this activity is a bit much.”

“What happened to the Hank that always wanted to go on an adventure?” Charles teases as they set off again. Each dock is connected by wide, flat bridges, nothing but empty space below. “The activity isn’t going to stop once we get on the ship, you know.”

Hank draws himself up. “I’ll just feel better once we’re underway,” he says matter-of-factly. He lowers his voice, speaking below the din. “You never know if those pirates came here after leaving Montressor. I’ll feel safer once we’re further away.”

Charles nods, unconsciously moving his hand to cover his jacket pocket for a moment. No wonder Hank had commissioned a ship and crew so quickly. Charles had been surprised at first, chalking it up to the astrophysicist's enthusiasm for the voyage, but now it makes more sense. The pirates still think the map is somewhere on Montressor. The sooner they leave, the less likely they are to encounter them.

“Don’t worry,” Charles assures him, and it’s easy sometimes to forget that Hank is only a year or two older than he is, “this spaceport is big. If the pirates are here, we’ll be long gone before they even come close to finding us.”

“I hope so,” Hank says, but he sounds mollified, nodding once.

They reach the end of the dock and cross the short bridge onto the next, and Charles nearly gets bowled over by a spacer when he stops to take in the sight of the ship that they’ll be sailing on to fame and fortune.

The RLS Klirodótima is a gorgeous, three-mast ship with elegant panels of carved, bowed wood painted in two tones making up her hull, proud and fierce. Her entire shape is streamlined, giving her an overall aggressive appearance, and her long, pointed bowsprit extends out far above the dock and casts a long shadow. Beneath it is the prow, carved intricately to look like the figurehead of a mermaid, covered in vivid, deep blue scales that glint brightly in the sunlight, her hair a wild, flowing mess of bright red and her amber eyes staring forward intently, terrible and solemn.

 

 

Her sails are currently lashed down tightly, and a long gangway extends down to the dock below, spacers filing up and down it, loading a few last provisions onto the ship. Charles and Hank climb up together, doing their best to keep out of the spacers’ ways, and soon they’re standing together on the spotless deck of the Klirodótima. Everything is neat and orderly, most of the deck space clear as much of the cargo appears to be disappearing below the deck, probably to the main hold. The bridge rises up over the main deck at the stern, two wooden staircases on either side leading up to the quarterdeck where the helm stands, a single giant wheel so polished that Charles can see his reflection from where he stands.

“You must be Dr. McCoy,” someone says from behind them, thickly accented and sudden enough to make Charles jump. A man with skin as red as the pressed admiral’s uniform that he wears stands by the rail with his arms folded behind his back, pointed tail lashing idly back and forth as he studies them with icy blue eyes beneath thick, black brows. “And Mr. Xavier, I presume?”

“Yes,” Hank says, setting his trunk down and striding forward to shake his hand vigorously, “yes, that would be me. I mean, us. And I must say, I am deeply impressed with your ship, Captain, she is truly a marvel.”

He chuckles. “Oh, I am not the Captain,” he answers, tilting his head back slightly and glancing up, “the Captain is aloft.”

Charles follows his gaze just in time to see another figure in sharp naval dress leap off the top of one of the crosstrees of the main mast, somersaulting once through the air and reaching out to snag one of the ratlines, swinging twice around the deck in a wide, looping arc before releasing the line and dropping down to land on her feet in front of them, brushing her jacket off once as an afterthought.

“Mr. Azazel,” she says briskly, clasping her hands behind her back in a similar manner with a stern expression, “I’ve checked this miserable ship from stem to stern and as usual it’s—” she breaks off and smiles, amusement flooding her tone, “—spot on. Can you get nothing wrong?”

Azazel grins, white teeth flashing brightly against his red skin. “You flatter me, Captain.”

“And who are these two lollygaggers standing about on my deck?” She turns her sharp gaze on them, and Charles can practically feel himself being analyzed.

“Captain, may I introduce Dr. Henry McCoy and Mr. Charles Xavier,” Azazel reports dutifully, nodding to each of them in turn, “the financiers of our voyage.”

“Ah, yes,” she says, stepping forward to shake their hands, her grip strong and cool. Where her first mate is red, she is a deep blue, oddly familiar until Charles recalls seeing the ship’s prow only minutes ago—she has the same glittering scales and shock of red hair, though her amber eyes hold far more warmth than those of her eerie lookalike. He wonders what it means, to have a figurehead resembling yourself. “I am Captain Raven Darkholme. Late of a few run-ins with the Procyon Armada, nasty business, really, so I won’t bother you with my scars—you _have_ met my first officer, yes? Mr. Azazel: tough, dependable, honest, brave, and true.”

Azazel grins again. “Captain, please.”

“Oh shut up, Azazel,” she says dismissively, though the words are accompanied by a quick smile, “you know I don’t mean a word of it.”

“Thank you for taking our commission on such short notice,” Charles says politely, “we’re very eager to see this through.”

“Yes,” Hank agrees quickly, “and I was wondering, exactly, how we might go about plotting our course using the treasure m—”

“Dr. McCoy,” Raven breaks in firmly, casting a searing glance around them. When Charles follows suit he can see several of the crew members paused in their tasks, as if trying to listen in, but when they see the Captain looking they return to their duties. “If I might have a word with you both in my stateroom.” Without waiting for acquiescence, she barrels on. “Mr. Azazel, I expect this ship to be ready to fly immediately upon my reemergence.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Charles follows Hank and Raven up the stairs to the quarterdeck, passing by the wheel. He can feel the weight of several eyes watching as they file into Raven’s office, the pressure only disappearing after Raven has shut and locked the door behind them.

“To muse and blabber about a treasure map in front of _this_ particular crew demonstrates a level of ineptitude that borders on the imbecilic,” Raven says at once as she crosses the room to lean her hip against her sturdy desk, and then smiles charmingly as Hank sputters, adding, “and I mean that in a very caring way.”

“Why is that?” Charles asks, keeping his voice as mild as possible. “When we hired the crew, we were told that we could find no other as reliant or trustworthy.”

“Hm,” Raven says, pressing a finger against the side of her chin thoughtfully, “let me make this as monosyllabic as possible—I do not like the crew you hired. Just this morning I was remarking to Mr. Azazel how I believe them to be a ludicrous parcel of driveling galoots, and I will stand by my assessment until outstanding circumstances prove otherwise.” She pushes herself off her desk and steps forward, holding out her hand. “The map, now, if you please.”

Charles exchanges glances with Hank, who gives a slight nod. Slightly begrudgingly, Charles digs into his pocket and produces the sphere, handing it over to the captain. She holds it up, examining it for a moment before walking past Charles and pulling a small silver key out of her own pocket, unlocking the cabinet on the wall and placing the map carefully inside.

“It shall remain here under lock and key when not in use,” she announces, turning around again after locking the door shut again and squirreling the key away. “I may ask you to not entirely trust the crew, but I encourage you to trust me as your captain.”

“Of course,” Hank answers, still quick to agree, “whatever you think is best, ma’am.”

Raven smiles. “Very good. Now, as for you, Mr. Xavier…” She appraises him critically, and Charles has the sudden urge to stand up straighter. “Dr. McCoy of course will be helping us to plot our course, but we’ll have to find work of some kind to put you to.”

“Work?” Charles asks before he can stop himself.

Raven laughs. “Well of course. Did you imagine that you would kick back and relax for the full duration of our voyage? I should hardly think so. This is a ship, Mr. Xavier. There’s always work to be done.”

Chagrinned, Charles gives her a small smile. “Of course, ma’am. I am at your disposal.”

“Naturally,” Raven says, and then her eyes light up. “Ah yes. I know _just_ the thing.”

X

Even Charles has to duck a little in order to descend down the creaking steps into the Klirodótima’s mess hall, a wide room decorated only with three long tables with benches instead of chairs, and a few supply barrels lining the walls. Right now with the crew prepping for their departure the mess is empty, only a few lanterns lit, giving the room a gloomy cast.

More light spills out of a wide doorway at the other end of the room, which as he, Hank, and Raven draw closer, Charles realizes is the galley. Pots and pans hang on the walls and down from the ceiling, and something bubbles quietly in the huge, lone pot that sits on the burner in the center of the room, a tangy smell wafting out. At first Charles assumes the galley to be as empty as the mess, but then a shadow detaches itself from the back, a tall, lean figure pivoting around with easy, lazy grace to face them with a soft whirr of gears.

 _Beware the cyborg,_ Bones’ dying whisper echoes through Charles’ mind, but Charles is momentarily too caught up in staring at the man with a robotic arm and leg on his right side, stirring a bowl of something while looking them all up and down with cool, gleaming eyes. His gaze catches on Charles’ and for a moment they stare at each other, both seeming unable to look away, before the corners of his mouth quirk upwards in a sly grin and Charles lets out a breath, flustered though unsure why.

 

 

“Mr. Lehnsherr,” Raven says, addressing the steward in a clipped voice, “may I introduce Dr. Henry McCoy and Mr. Charles Xavier, the proprietors of our commissions. Gentlemen, this is Erik Lehnsherr, who will be in charge of keeping us all happily fed.”

“Welcome aboard,” Erik says, and Charles swears he knows that voice, alarm bells going off inside his head. It sounds nearly exactly the same as the one that called for his stepfather’s inn to be turned upside down in search of the map now safely locked in Raven’s office. “I’m looking forward to sailing with everyone.”

“I’m putting Mr. Xavier under your charge,” Raven says, and both of them start; Charles in surprise, head whipping up to look at Raven because surely she can’t be serious, while Erik raises an eyebrow. “See to it that he’s kept busy, Mr. Lehnsherr, I’ll not stand for idle hands on my ship. We’ll be casting off shortly, do secure your cookware.” With that she turns and heads back above deck, Hank following her after giving Charles a clap on the shoulder.

Charles is left to plunge headfirst into awkward silence, staring at Erik warily from where he still hovers on the threshold of the galley. Erik pays him no mind, stepping fluidly across the floor to tip the contents of his bowl into the simmering pot, and then moving over one of the countertops where a cutting board and knife are laid out, grabbing a stack of vegetables and beginning to chop.

“So, Mr. Xavier,” Erik says into the silence, Charles’ surname rolling off his tongue, “have you any experience in a kitchen?”

Charles crosses his arms. “I’ve been working at an inn for over ten years now,” he answers, watching Erik’s face carefully, “and usually in the kitchen. It was quite a well-known inn, actually, down on Montressor. Maybe you’ve heard of it. The Marko Inn?”

“Hm,” Erik says, drawing the syllable out. The rhythmic chopping of his knife along with the flashing of the sharp, honed blade is mesmerizing. “I can’t say I have. I don’t think I’ve ever been down to Montressor. I only ever come as far as Crescentia.” He glances back at Charles, flashing his teeth in a grin.

Charles narrows his eyes at Erik’s back. He _knows_ it was Erik’s voice he heard—it has to have been. Bones’ last warning rings through him again as he watches Erik reach across the counter to a second, smaller stovetop and grab the edge of a sizzling pan with his robotic arm, paying no heed to what is surely burning hot metal.

“You seem familiar, though,” he says, making his voice purposefully thoughtful, tilting his head so by the time Erik turns to look at him again, he sees Charles studying him quizzically. “Are you sure you haven’t come through before?”

“If the inn is as famous as you claim, I’m sure you get all forms of characters passing through,” Erik answers, amused. He’s so calm and casual still, not a tense line in his angular body, that doubt really does begin to creep into Charles’ mind. “Including a wide variety of cyborgs. There are quite a lot of us.”

“Maybe I’m mistaken,” Charles says, unable to keep some of his uncertainty from leaking into his voice, to which Erik only smiles again. He reminds Charles of a nebular shark when he does, with all those gleaming teeth.

“No offense taken,” he says, a teasing note entering his voice, and Charles bristles.

“I may not care one way or the other,” he answers matter-of-factly, which only makes Erik chuckle, a low, dark sound that rumbles out of his chest like thunder and makes Charles pause.

“Fascinating,” Erik says, and Charles blinks, but before he can open his mouth to demand what, exactly, Erik means by that, something small and blue flies up into Charles’ face with a small cackle of glee.

Charles stumbles backwards in surprise, shielding his face with one arm to ward off further attack, but then Erik lets out another chuckle, shaking his head.

“He won’t hurt you.”

Slowly, he puts his arm down, and watches in fascination as a small, amorphous blue blob assimilates in midair in front of him, grinning at him toothily as it bounces up and down in excitement.

“What _is_ that thing?” Charles asks, forgetting his disquiet with Erik for a moment to be genuinely, openly curious.

“He’s a Morph,” Erik says, and as he answers the little blob transforms into a tiny version of Erik himself, squeaking in a tinny voice, “ _He’s a Morph! He’s a Morph_!”

Charles holds out his hand tentatively and the Morph swirls around his fingers like bubbles before plopping down in his palm in his blue form again, blinking bright yellow eyes up at him. He’s cool to the touch, his little body cold against Charles’ skin, but while he looks shiny enough to be slimy, he leaves no residue behind when he bounces back up into the air again after a moment and flits over to hover above Erik’s shoulder.

“His name’s Nightcrawler,” Erik continues idly, still watching Charles even as he lifts his real hand to scratch beneath the little Morph’s chin, “and he can be a little obnoxious, but he’s largely harmless.”

“I’m not afraid,” Charles feels the need to say, the words blurting out of his mouth before he can decide whether or not he’s still talking about the little Morph or something else entirely.

Erik seems to sense this, his eyes gleaming with amusement again. “I would never dare to presume you were,” he says blithely, and before Charles can argue, the steward continues smoothly, “why don’t you go back up and watch the launch. This is your first, right? There’s always something special about experiencing that very first liftoff. And besides,” he adds, eyes traveling slowly up and down Charles’ body in a blatant once-over, sending a jolt of something hot and molten sliding down the length of Charles’ spine, “you’ll have plenty of time to set to work once we’re underway.”

Charles turns around and makes for the stairs without further word, suddenly desperate for fresh air and to put as much distance between himself and the strange steward as he can. He tries not to run up the stairs but when he reaches the top and steps back out onto the deck, it feels as if he’s broken the surface of water, trying not to visibly gasp.

Something about Erik makes him tight and tense, on edge when Charles knows, logically, that he has no solid proof that Erik is the cyborg pirate that Bones was afraid of or the one that burned down Kurt’s inn and Charles’ home. Erik doesn’t look that much older than Charles himself, so it’s hard to imagine someone so young being so notorious and cold-blooded, especially while watching that someone chop up vegetables for dinner.

Uneasily, Charles makes his way towards one of the railings. Maybe he heard wrong. His flight from the burning inn had been frantic and chaotic, and the more he tries to remember what exactly the voice shouting from down the stairs had sounded like, the more his doubt twists and distorts his memory, until he begins to wonder if he even heard anything at all.

“Prepare to cast off!” Azazel cries, jolting Charles from his thoughts. The first officer stands beside his captain up on the quarterdeck, both of them standing just behind the helmsman at the wheel. Charles can just barely see Hank where the astrophysicist stands even further back, more likely than not twiddling his hands together with nerves.

 

 

“All clear, Captain!” a voice shouts from the crow’s nest high above.

“All hands to stations!” Azazel orders, ringing voice carrying far.

The deck suddenly swarms with activity, all crewmembers running to their assigned posts to carry out their assigned tasks, and Charles ends up pressed back against the rail to avoid being trampled. Some of the crewmembers get to work untying the Klirodótima’s lines that tether her to the dock, freeing her from all restraints, while most of crewmembers leap up onto the shrouds—thick ropes rigged down on either side of the masts that look to Charles’ eyes like nets, easy to climb on while their main purpose is serving as stabilizers for the masts—and scramble upwards high above the deck, spreading out along the booms, using the footropes to keep themselves from plummeting back down.

“Loose all sails!” Azazel roars, and in unison the crew begins to heave at their assigned lines, unfurling three huge, shimmering half-circle sails stacked on top of one another on all three of the Klirodótima’s masts. They fill with air at once, bulging forward with a loud _snap_ that cracks like a gunshot.

Charles’ stomach suddenly creeps up into his throat as he feels the ship begin to rise, lifting off from her idle hover. He grips the rail tightly with both hands, daring to lean forward to peer off the side to watch the dock fall away as the Klirodótima is buoyed upwards by her majestic solar sails. They begin to shine brightly with power, almost crackling as their reflective cells drink in the sunlight, and one by one the power travels down each mast, lighting up the long power cells as the energy is transported down to the engine room. He can feel the thrumming vibrations in the deck already, the thrusters located at the stern of the ship that will give them an extra boost coming alive as they power up.

Charles starts when his feet suddenly leave the deck of the ship entirely, gasping in surprise and delight as he starts to float, the Klirodótima high enough now for Crescentia’s gravity to no longer keep her passengers in check. It’s an odd sensation, especially when his body begins to capsize, upending him so that he’s hanging upside down in midair and still rising, only slightly faster than the ship. He can’t help the small, nervous laugh that escapes him, because if he floats too high—

“Engage artificial gravity!” Raven’s voice rings out this time, and a moment later there’s a tug in Charles’ navel and he drops back down towards the deck head-first, throwing his arms out wildly to stop himself from smashing _face_ -first into the wood.

Strong arms wrap around him, catching him just in time, stopping his freefall with a lurch, his fingertips just barely grazing the sun-worn deck. “Careful,” Erik says, flipping him around effortlessly so that he sets Charles down rightside up, on his feet. “Wouldn’t want to scrape that face of yours.”

Slightly dizzy, it takes Charles a moment to realize that he’s grasping onto Erik’s biceps tightly to steady himself. “Thanks,” he mutters, quickly letting go and moving away, trying not to think about what it felt like to be pressed up against Erik’s firm chest. He can’t tell if Erik was making fun of him or not, either, the cyborg’s gunmetal eyes unreadable even while they were inches away from Charles’ own.

The Klirodótima begins to rotate, spinning slowly around to face a new heading. The thrusters begin to whine, a steady, rumbling vibration building up from the deck beneath Charles’ boots until it feels like even his bones are rattling. Instinctively, he grips the railing tightly and braces himself, ignoring Erik even when the steward steps in behind him to look over the side idly.

“Take her away!” Azazel shouts, and then the Klirodótima blasts forward with a burst of speed, soaring away from the spaceport far below and out into the stars.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

X

 

Charles gives a wild whoop as his hair blows back and the force of the wind presses against his face—it’s everything he loved about solar surfing, but tenfold. The ship settles to a nice, easy coast, gliding swiftly towards an open wormhole gate, so Charles lets go of the rail and jogs over to the nearest shroud, clambering up the side of it and turning to face outward so that he’s not in danger of missing anything, holding on tightly to avoid falling off the ship entirely.

A school of gullrays escorts them into the space tunnel, gliding on their solid black wings with their long, jaggedly barbed tails trailing behind them serenely. They loop once around the ship, cooing softly, and Charles imagines that if he could extend his fingers out just a little further, he might be able to brush against their silky skins. As it were, he keeps both hands on the rope of his shroud and settles for watching them glide by.

Wispy clouds of stardust begin to billow around them as they sail out of the wormhole, making Charles’ cheeks tingle as they pass right through some of them. A low, deep sound echoes around the ship that slowly rises in pitch, and Charles’ eyes widen with fascination as a pod of orcus galacticus whales looms out of the depths of the clouds, overtaking the Klirodótima and swimming idly by. One glides right over the top of the ship, its huge shadow falling across them momentarily and pitching them into near darkness, and when Charles turns back again from looking up he finds himself face-to-face with one huge, inquisitive eye as another whale sidles up alongside the ship, peering at him curiously.

“Hello,” he mouths, and for a moment he can see his own reflection in the bottomless void of the whale’s pupil that gazes at him inquisitively, speechless in the face of such quiet, calm intelligence backed by deep wisdom. Then the whale kicks its billowing tail and moves away, gracefully skimming over the top of a cloud to catch up up with its pod mates.

 

 

“Dr. McCoy,” Raven’s voice rings out, and Charles whips his head around in time to see Hank leaning precariously far over the side of the quarterdeck, camera in hand as he attempts to snap a photo of another passing whale, “I’d stand clear of the—”

Right as the whale passes it lets out a burst of slimy, green snot from one of its blowholes, spraying Hank directly in the face and matting his fur with gobs of scum. Charles has to tuck his face against his arm to hide his laugh, even while he feels sorry for his friend—it’s going to take Hank ages to clean that out of his fur.

The orcus pod moves on, leaving the Klirodótima far behind, their haunting, singing voices slowly fading into the distance. Charles is sad to see them go, and hesitantly he climbs down the shroud, hopping back onto the deck. Now that the launch is complete and they’re well underway with smooth sailing, everyone goes about their duties at a much more relaxed pace, already settling into routine.

“So,” Erik says, straightening from his position leaned against the railing, “it falls to me to keep you busy.” Nightcrawler swirls around his head as a mini gullray, squawking, before reverting back to a blue blob with a giggle.

“I’m not a child,” Charles points out coolly, folding his arms, “you don’t have to stand around and oversee me. Just tell me what to do.”

“Very well, Mr. Xavier,” Erik answers solemnly, and though his face is completely straight Charles can’t shake the feeling that he’s still being laughed at, “see to it that this deck is scrubbed clean. I won’t babysit you—” and oh, he’s said that on purpose and makes Charles want to grind his teeth, “—but when I come back later, I want to be able to pretend that I can see my reflection.”

“ _Reflection, reflection, reflection_!” Nightcrawler chants.

“Mop and bucket are here,” Erik continues, reaching up under the gunwale and producing one of each, tossing them over to Charles to catch, “and I think I’ll leave Nightcrawler here to keep an eye on you anyway.”

Charles narrows his eyes at Erik’s back when the steward turns away, headed back towards the stairs leading into the mess hall. He should have signed on as Hank’s personal assistant, he thinks morosely as he sets to work, fetching water from one of the supply barrels, because this sort of work, under the direct supervision of someone he’s still not entirely sure that he can even trust, is little better than the sort of work Kurt would put him to back at the inn—it’s as if he hasn’t even left home.

He has to laugh, though, when he sees that Nightcrawler has transformed himself into a single, giant eye to watch him, taking Erik’s orders very literally as he hovers overhead, blinking at him. “At least you’re an improvement as far as company goes, my friend,” he tells the little Morph, who chitters happily.

Charles spends the rest of the afternoon ensuring that the deck is swabbed clean, scrubbing with his mop until the wood is practically blinding in the starlight. The Klirodótima is in deep space now, no other ship traffic on any of the horizons, and sailing steadily deeper, gliding through the cosmos with graceful ease. He pauses to wipe his brow, leaning against his mop as his gaze travels across the deck. A few of the crewmembers are gathered near the base of one of the masts, and when they see Charles watching they stare back, faces hard and unfriendly.

A meaty hand closes around his forearm and pulls him around, and Charles starts an angry retort before he looks up into the face of his assailant, words stuttering to a halt. “ _Cain_?”

Cain Marko was only fifteen years old when he ran off from home, no doubt to escape the incessant hovering of his father, and Charles remembers him from those days as being much larger than himself but now Cain is _massive_ , towering over Charles in both height and girth and nearly unrecognizable if it weren’t for the fact that Charles would know his face anywhere. He’s so surprised to see Cain again, and here of all places, that it’s like his brain has short-circuited for a moment, his gears grinding to a halt in shock.

“Surprise,” Cain says, sounding pleased. “I thought I recognized you, Charlie. What are you doing here with Dr. Nerd?”

Just like that, Charles’ brain kicks on again, gears cranking now in overtime. “What are _you_ doing here?” he demands, yanking his arm out of his stepbrother’s grip. “Is this all you’ve been doing, then, hopping from ship to ship as part of a crew for hire? Do you have any _idea_ how much time your father has spent looking for you?”

“I missed you too,” Cain says with a laugh, clapping him on the shoulder a little too hard. His hand stays there, squeezing. “And what, did he seriously expect me to stay on Montressor? Or come back? You know what he’s like, Charles. Fuck that.”

“It’s good to know that you’ve been gallivanting off through space while I’ve had to play substitute son,” Charles says stiffly, trying and failing to shake Cain’s hand loose. He and Cain were never friendly, in the handful years that Charles did have to cohabitate with him before he took off. Charles spent far more time avoiding being Cain’s personal punching bag than actually speaking to his stepbrother, so to have Cain addressing him like they’re old friends now is off-putting, making Charles’ wariness return in full force.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing now?” Cain answers, grinning at him. It makes his piggy eyes look even smaller and squintier than they already are. “We can _gallivant_ together now. Family reunion-style.”

“Kurt’s inn was burned to the ground,” Charles says, eyeing his stepbrother warily, “no one was hurt, but we’ve lost everything. You should make some time to visit him at least.”

“Oh, so that’s what you’re doing here,” Cain says, not even fazed by the news of his father’s business being destroyed, “working for Dr. Nerd for a little extra income? What’s it like, is he still as much of a nutcase as I remember?”

“The inn was attacked by _pirates_ , Cain,” Charles says, staring at him, “we’re lucky to have even _survived_.”

“Pirates on Montressor?” Cain sounds bemused, regarding Charles as if he thinks Charles is telling a joke. “Why does all the exciting stuff happen on that boring rock when I’m not there?”

“It isn’t funny,” Charles snaps, tugging free of Cain’s grip for a second time, “nor was it exciting, but anyway if you’ll excuse me, I have—”

Cain shoves him hard, sending Charles reeling backwards until he loses his balance and hits the deck hard, landing on his back. “Still such a stick in the mud, Charlie,” Cain says, advancing on him slowly, “no wonder it took you this long to leave home and get the hell away from Dad.”

“What the hell’s your problem?” Charles demands, sitting up and trying not to wince when his tailbone gives an unpleasant twinge. He starts to push himself back up to his feet when Cain grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him halfway up, dangling awkwardly in Cain’s grip.

“Nothing, Charlie,” Cain says, leaning in close with a grin that makes Charles wonder how he isn’t breaking out in hives, “just so long as you mind your place.”

 

 

“Speaking of which,” another voice interjects calmly, and a robotic hand clamps down on the wrist of Cain’s hand, “why don’t you get back to minding yours.”

Cain yelps when the hand squeezes his wrist tightly, no doubt exerting far more pressure than a normal human hand, and Cain’s fingers flying open to let go of Charles’ shirt as he tries to yank his hand away. Charles drops but is saved from hitting the deck again by another hand that clenches in the back of his jacket and hauls him back up to his feet. Erik stands beside him, watching Cain squirm for a moment or two longer before finally letting go.

“I think there’s an entire crate of rope that needs to be untangled belowdecks,” Erik continues, not quite icy but nothing resembling friendliness either, “see to it that it’s coiled by dinnertime.”

Cain rubs his wrist gingerly but nods, shooting Charles one last dark look before lumbering off to do as he’s been told.

“You know him?” Erik asks casually once Cain is out of sight.

“I didn’t need your help,” Charles answers shortly, shrugging out of Erik’s grip and brushing himself off, “but thank you anyway.”

Erik huffs out a breath that could be a sigh. “Yes, of course, I should have known.”

“Apply it to memory,” Charles suggests, but then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. Erik’s eyes follow the movement before flicking back to his face. “Yes, I know him. He’s my stepbrother.”

“Stepbrother,” Erik muses, as if rolling the concept around in his mind. Nightcrawler morphs into a tiny replica of Cain, complete with demon fangs and red eyes, squeaking, “ _Stepbrother! Stepbrother! Stepbrother!_ ”

Charles laughs, some of his tension evaporating. “Close enough,” he tells the little blob, before addressing Erik again. “He’s always been somewhat of a brute, so it’s a shock to see him on a ship where he has to follow a captain’s orders.”

“I see,” Erik answers, still regarding Charles with that same laser-like intensity that makes Charles shift awkwardly. “I’m sure you’re more than capable of handling him, then.”

“It’s been a few years since I’ve had to,” Charles admits, “but I’ve always been smarter than he is, fortunately.”

Erik gives a small snort. “It doesn’t take much.”

“No need to be so crass about it,” Charles says, mock-accusingly, and gives a slight smile despite himself. Nightcrawler weaves around them, zooming through the air as a blue blur and Charles flounders for a moment, out of things to say. “I’ve finished mopping the deck,” he says abruptly, when it becomes clear that Erik isn’t about to say anything either, “it’s just as clean as you wanted.”

“There’s still plenty of time before dinner,” Erik says, turning to saunter away back towards the mess hall and galley, and then all slightly warmer feelings Charles might’ve had towards him vanish completely when the cyborg looks back at him over his shoulder and says with a grin, “so do it again.”

 

X

 

After dinner Erik foists all the dirty dishes onto Charles, which wouldn’t be so bad except after Charles finally finishes cleaning all of the plates and cups and silverware used by the crew for the meal, he discovers that Erik has possibly used every single pot, pan, and utensil in the galley to cook the meal. He sets to work with grim determination, certain that for whatever reason, Erik’s trying to goad him into complaining or catch him doing a lackluster job.

“It’s a nice attempt,” he tells Nightcrawler, who hovers over the sink to keep him company, occasionally darting down to pop a soap bubble with a giggle, “but he’s going to end up disappointed.”

Dish duty also gives him time to think about Cain. Charles’ head is still spinning, slightly, by Cain’s presence on the ship, but even more troubling are the possible implications. Raven has made it transparently clear that she doesn’t like the crew, which only builds Charles’ suspicions about Erik even higher.

However...if Erik is the same cyborg that burned down the Marko Inn, could that mean that Cain was there too that night? He hadn’t seemed surprised at all by the news, which is disturbing enough on its own, but if Cain had been _helping_ destroy the inn…

Charles knows Cain is a brute, but surely he’s not a monster.

His train of thought is interrupted when Nightcrawler swoops down to steal his scrub brush, and so he spends the next few minutes chasing the little blue menace around the galley trying to get it back. He finally corners the Morph by slamming down the lid of a barrel that he drops into, trapping him inside, and then lifts it up a crack to stick his arm in and snatch the brush back, giving the cackling blob a few teasing pokes in retaliation until the little squirt is nearly hiccupping with laughter.

 

 

Shaking his head but grinning, Charles returns to his water tub with Nightcrawler on his shoulder and gets back to work. Cain can’t have helped burn down the inn. He was never fond of the place—or of his father—but there’s no way he would’ve actively tried to help kill them all. But if Cain wasn’t there, then Erik couldn’t have been either, not since they’ve both clearly been on the same crew for awhile now.

_Beware the cyborg._

“I feel like I’m missing something,” Charles tells Nightcrawler, who blinks up at him innocently. It’s not as if cyborgs are uncommon, exactly. Perhaps it _is_ a bit convenient for Charles to automatically assume that the first cyborg he ran across after coming into possession of the map is the cyborg that Bones feared so much.

He hates balancing on the precipice of uncertainty, hanging suspended in midair on a solar surfer before that next updraft of air, and wants more than anything to be able to kick off in either direction with the knowledge of whether or not he can trust Erik.

Charles is halfway finished with drying off the last of the pots when the cyborg in question enters the galley, the clunk of his boots on the stairs of the mess the first warning followed by the soft whirring of the gears in his artificial arm and leg. Charles pauses, throwing the dishtowel over one shoulder and folding his arms expectantly when Erik comes to a stop in the doorway, surveying the squeaky-clean kitchenware.

“Impressive, Mr. Xavier,” he says with a nod. Nightcrawler zooms over to greet him, morphing into a fisted hand that Erik bumps once with his own.

“It’s just Charles,” Charles says in exasperation, “we’re nearly the same age, it’s not like you’re ten years my senior. Call me by my first name.”

“Charles,” Erik says, rolling Charles’ name off his tongue in his rich, colorful accent just like he had with Charles’ surname that very first time, “I’ll apply it to memory.”

“You’re impossible,” Charles tells him flatly as Erik smirks at him and moves through the galley, skirting around the burner in the center.

“Oh?” Erik says, amused. “How so?”

“You throw everything back into my face,” Charles says tersely, “and I don’t know what I’ve done to warrant that.”

“I don’t know what _I’ve_ done to warrant such instant dislike and distrust,” Erik answers calmly, lifting his real shoulder in a half-shrug. He’s come to a stop outside the door in the back of the galley. “We’re going to be spending a vast amount of time together on this long journey, Charles, so we might as well be pleasant to one another.” He yawns, holding his arms up in a full-body stretch. “When you’re finished drying, wipe down the tables and you can go.”

Charles remains silent as Erik opens the door and ducks inside. He’d assumed it was an extra storeroom for the galley but he catches a fleeting glimpse of a small but cozy cabin before Erik shuts the door. Not to be left out, Nightcrawler flattens his squishy body out and slides beneath the crack at the bottom, slipping in after him.

Charles is silent and contemplative as he finishes the drying, carefully stowing everything away without making too much noise. He wipes down all the tables in the mess, careful not to knock into any of the benches to avoid causing any loud scrapes, and then when he leans back into the galley to toss the rag onto the countertop, the soft glow of light streaming out from underneath Erik’s door catches his eye, so he takes a breath and walks over to knock softly.

“It’s me.”

“It’s unlocked,” Erik answers, and Charles twists the knob and opens the door.

Erik is sprawled across the large bed that takes up half the cabin, a ratty old paperback—of all things—propped up in one hand. Aside from the bed, there’s an old, battered trunk that’s tightly locked pushed against one wall, and against the other is a low, rickety table with a long, flat wooden box on top, bronze and silver gears inlaid on the side. Above Erik’s head on the back wall of the cabin is a tiny porthole window, stars twinkling brightly in the distance. It’s more cubbyhole than cabin, and Charles has only a tiny square of space left to stand in.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says, meeting Erik’s gaze but holding his head high, “you’re right. I’ve just had a rough past few days, but that’s no real excuse.” He pauses, thinking about his mother. “I have an uncouth habit of judging before knowing the entire story.”

Erik stays silent, studying Charles with his unreadable gaze.

“We _are_ going to be spending a lot of time together if you’re to be my task master for the voyage—” Charles offers Erik a small smile, real but a little uncertain, “—and I’d like to get along.”

“That will be easy enough,” Erik answers at last. He doesn’t smile, not quite, but somehow his gaze is warm and Charles knows that while Erik probably never truly took offense, all is forgiven.

He has no proof of anything, Charles reminds himself, because he’d thought about it again long and hard while wiping  down the tables. He’d thought Erik’s voice was familiar, but that really could just be his mind automatically leaping to conclusions that Erik is the cyborg Bones warned him about, wanting too badly for the scant evidence he does have to line up and fit. The case of Cain’s whereabouts is stronger, however, and points towards neither of them being at the inn that night, so Charles has no choice but to accept that Erik is not the cyborg who attacked the inn and is chasing after the map.

He isn’t lying, either, about wanting to get along. This is his first time ever leaving Montressor, sailing on his first ship on his first voyage. He wants it to be _fun_.

“I saw you looking,” Erik says, nodding to the low table, “do you play?”

Charles looks closer. The top of the box has long, evenly spaced and perpendicular lines carved across its surface, creating a grid of squares. Each square is overlaid by a thin metal plate that alternates between brown and black. “Is that a chessboard?”

Erik nods, evidently pleased as he sets his book aside. “You up for a game?”

“I’m warning you now,” Charles says with a grin, “I’m very good.”

Erik smirks, lazily arrogant. “So am I.”

They end up playing three games that first night, after Erik moves the table over in front of his bed and perches on the side while Charles drags in one of the smaller barrels from the galley so he can sit across from him, huddled close together over the board in the tiny cabin. All the pieces are made out of cartridges, Erik shows him, chiseled on one end to resemble each of the proper chess pieces with a few extra embellishments down their sides and come out of slots carved into opposite sides of the board.

“They’re magnetic, too,” he explains, dropping a pawn onto the board where it instantly sticks to a square with a soft _clink_ , “so if the ship gives a good roll we don’t lose our game.”

“Brilliant,” Charles says, flashing another brief grin, and hurries to set up his side of the board.

Erik wins the first game, and he looks so smug that Charles challenges him to a second, avenging himself by defeating Erik in an even less amount of moves than it took Erik to beat him. Their tiebreaker takes longer, both of them leaned so far over the board that they nearly bump heads at one point, the soft glow of Erik’s lantern on the wall growing dimmer and dimmer as it slowly burns out. Nightcrawler ends up settling on top of Erik’s head, watching their game even as he dozes off, snoring softly.

 

 

Charles emerges triumphant at last, checkmating Erik even as he gives a wide yawn, so Erik tips his king over in acknowledgement of defeat.

“Go to bed,” he says, eyes glittering in the dim light as Charles pumps a fist in the air as a sign of victory, “you have to be up early to help start breakfast.”

“Alright,” Charles says, helping him clear the pieces from the board. Clumsy with weariness, his fingers brush against Erik’s more than once, though Erik doesn’t say anything about it. “Thank you. I hadn’t played in awhile. This was...nice.”

“We’ll play again,” Erik says, scooting the table back against the wall. “Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight,” Charles answers, dragging his makeshift chair back out into the galley and carefully shutting Erik’s door. He’s so tired that he nearly stumbles on the stairs when he climbs out of the mess, the shock of cold air outside making him shiver violently.

He makes his way to the lower topside deck and ducks down into the shared crewmember’s quarters where he’s been assigned a sleeping hammock, fumbling a little in the dark to make sure he’s not about to climb in on top of someone else, and then the long day catches up with him at last as he collapses forward into his hammock and drops immediately off to sleep.

 

X

 

The first two weeks of the voyage passes in a long, slow blur of hard work—though perhaps _hard_ isn’t entirely the right term, as it’s more tedious than complicated. Charles is set to every single menial task that could ever be imagined on a ship, he thinks, from scraping stardust barnacles off the bottom of the hull, to polishing the huge anchor that stands twice as tall as Charles does, to sweeping out the entire cargo hold, to peeling every single potato, it feels like, in the entire universe.

All of these tasks are carried out either under Erik’s watchful eye or, if the steward is busy, under Nightcrawler’s, which at least barely feels like he’s being babysat at all. Hank spends most of his time cooped up with Raven in her office, studying the map where no prying eyes can see, so Charles hardly sees his one actual friend on the ship, though he doesn’t find himself lonely: it seems he’s made up for it by finding one in Erik.

It’s slow to form, and brought staggering to a halt more often than not when one of Erik’s teasing barbs cuts too deep or when Charles snaps back, but gradually, with the help of their chess games that have wordlessly become a nightly ritual, Charles finds himself genuinely enjoying Erik’s company. The steward is a harsh critic, especially when it comes to the quality of Charles’ work, but it only pushes Charles into working as hard as he can just to show Erik that just because he’s a planet-sider, as Erik likes to call him, doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of earning his keep. The sight of Erik’s slightly raised eyebrows and small nod of acknowledgement have become Charles’ goal, because by now he knows it means Erik is impressed.

The first time he hears Erik laugh, Charles is leaned against the doorway of the galley, dishrag in hand as he dries off the last mug of the night, drawn out to the mess by the sound of loud, raucous laughter. A few of the crewmembers have gathered around one of the tables, squished together on the benches, and as Charles watches Erik shuffles a deck of playing cards. His hands—both real and robotic—flash in midair above the table, working in seamless tandem to cut the deck over and over again, and then someone says something that makes them all laugh again, even Erik, and Charles stills.

Erik’s eyes light up when he laughs, even in the dim, flickering lantern light of the mess hall, and it makes Charles realize that this is the first time he’s heard Erik laugh—he’s heard him snort plenty of times, and let out huffs of breath that can pass as signs of amusement, and his soft chuckles are more mocking than anything else, but here and now, Erik’s laugh, not as loud or grating as the rest of the crewmembers’ laughs and far more contained, is perhaps one of the loveliest sounds Charles has ever heard. It’s the kind of laugh that he can’t help but smile along with, warm and bright.

Erik finishes shuffling the deck, dealing out cards with a flick of his fingers, a sign of old ease due to long practice, and at the same time he looks up and meets Charles’ gaze from across the mess, a small, private smile still curling at the edges of his lips. Charles feels his face grow hot, caught staring with no excuse at all, so he quickly turns around and ducks back into the galley, setting the mug down with its fellows a little more firmly than necessary.

Nightcrawler pops out of one, chittering happily as he floats up to Charles for a chin scratch. “I might be in a little trouble,” Charles tells him weakly, but smiles away at how Nightcrawler practically purrs.

Usually after he’s finished doing the dishes Charles meets Erik in his room for a game or two of chess, but since Erik’s playing cards Charles isn’t sure whether or not their game will be happening tonight. It’s probably for the best, he decides, giving Nightcrawler one last pat before walking back over to the doorway of the galley and steeling himself, since he was just caught gawking at Erik like a schoolgirl.

He slips back into the mess, skirting around the tables and sticking close to the wall as he hurries towards the stairway leading up to the deck, carefully keeping his gaze away from the card game. None of the crewmembers pay him any attention, settled into their game, but Charles feels the weight of Erik’s gaze following him the entire way.

The deck is mostly empty when Charles emerges, only the two crewmembers who are set for the night’s watch in sight. A cold wind blows, making Charles shiver as he makes his way over to the starboard side of the ship to look out beyond the railing, but it keeps their sails full, carrying them onward through the cosmos.

Another reason Charles barely minds the chores he’s been given on a daily basis shines all around him, millions upon billions upon trillions of star systems surrounding the ship in all dimensions—because how could he ever spend a moment in misery when he’s out amongst the stars? Tonight they’re sailing past a nebula that is deep green in color, a billowing cloudscape more dramatic than even the largest of the cumulonimbus clouds that Charles has solar surfed through, with tinges of red and gold that stretch on for lightyears at a time, so incredibly massive yet still tiny and insignificant in the vastness of space.

He takes a deep breath, relishing in the burn of cold air in his lungs even while goosebumps spread down his arms. He’s alive and he’s free, sailing off all the known star charts on an adventure that no one ever before has ever successfully returned from, if they return at all—but he means to return, and with the treasure too. He’s onboard the finest ship the galaxy has ever seen, with a daring captain and a brave first officer, with Hank to plot their course and Erik—

Erik, Charles thinks, leaning forward against the wooden rail. Erik, who is possibly the most confusing person he’s ever met, cold and harsh when giving orders to the crew, wickedly sarcastic whenever he has to directly address Raven or Azazel, but gentle and kind to little Nightcrawler, who by all rights is the type of creature that someone like Erik should probably detest and view with nothing but scorn, all silly antics and loud giggles.

And to Charles himself...Erik is a hard task master, ridiculously picky and sometimes, Charles will admit, it gets annoying being bossed around by someone who is hardly older than he is, but Erik is never needlessly cruel about it. As much as he dislikes it, Charles _is_ just a fumbling planet-sider still getting used to spacer life, but Erik’s been more of a help than a hindrance, always willing to patiently answer any of the endless fountain of questions Charles has about ship life, and Charles has learned a lot from him over the past two weeks.

Back on Montressor, Hank was his only actual friend, and even then their friendship was only through bits and snatches of conversation whenever Hank happened to stop by the inn for lunch or dinner. School had been no different, as Charles had been light years ahead of his classmates, nearly all of them focused on the ground beneath their feet, destined to join their brothers and fathers in the mines or on construction plateaus, while Charles always looked upwards, towards the sky and stars.

Erik beats him in chess just as many times as he loses to him, has a sharp wit and a sharper tongue, smiles slow but warm like a dawning sun, and laughs like starlight, subtle but no less beautiful or bright. He’s a spacer, and probably a fiendish rogue, but Charles wants to know him: as they are now, he might as well be using one of Hank’s telescopes to observe a supernova millions of lightyears away—able to see the bright burst of light, and catch nuances of life and power, but what are nuances compared to the whole? Erik is mysterious, as hackneyed and ridiculous as it sounds, and Charles can’t help but be fascinated.

 _Just two weeks ago you were basically accusing him of burning down the inn_ , Charles reminds himself firmly. A particularly strong gust of wind whips across the ship, and Charles shivers again, teeth chattering. He should go back inside and get his jacket, or better yet, just go to bed. Breakfast is early on the Klirodótima, and Erik’s learned that while Charles is hopeless at eggs, he makes decent pancakes.

“Cold?” asks a voice, right in his ear, and Charles nearly jumps out of his skin as two long, strong arms bracket his own against the railing, a firm chest brushing against his back.

“What the hell,” Charles snaps, less out of anger and more out of the need to cover up his embarrassment from startling so badly, “next time warn me before you sneak up on me.”

“That would defeat the entire purpose of sneaking up on you,” Erik points out wryly. Charles sneaks a glance sideways. The cyborg looks out into the stars over Charles’ shoulder, his body warm where it covers him, and now that he’s so close, Charles can hear the faint whirl of turning gears that always accompanies Erik, courtesy of his arm and leg. “You ought to be careful, wandering around the deck at night. Awful accidents have been known to happen.”

“What, are you afraid that Cain will take it as an opportunity to throw me over the side with no one the wiser?” Charles asks dryly. He’s very much trapped against the railing, Erik boxing him in completely, but he’s determined to play it cool.

He’s also determined not to like it, but it may already be too late.

“You didn’t hear me coming up behind you,” Erik says idly, as if that’s answer enough.

“Cain may not like me, but I doubt he’d _murder_ me,” Charles says, a little dubiously. He’s had a couple more run-ins with his stepbrother over the course of the journey so far, and Erik has intervened every time, even when Charles was almost certain that he’d originally been on the complete opposite end of the ship. While dealing with Cain is unpleasant, Charles hardly feels the need for help, but each time Erik has sent Cain packing, watching him leave with something dark and unreadable in his eyes. “We’re stepbrothers, we’re supposed to not get along.”

Erik makes a small, noncommittal sound in response, but it makes his chest vibrate against Charles’ back, and Charles suddenly has goosebumps for an entirely different reason than the cold.

“Um,” he says, hyperaware of every inch of Erik either brushing against him or hovering over him, a solid presence at his back that he’d have to be a complete robot in order to be able to ignore, “weren’t you playing cards?”

“I lost in the first round,” Erik says, and Charles feels him shrug.

“And followed me out here?” his traitorous mouth asks, even while his mind screams at him to shut up. “Maybe _you’re_ the one who’s looking to shove me off the ship.”

Erik chuckles, low and dark, leaning in closer so that his body presses Charles’ against the wood, physically pinning him in place. “You’re the one who keeps bringing up the murderous-intent nonsense,” he murmurs, right in Charles’ ear again, “and who says I didn’t just want some fresh air?”

“You have a funny way of going about it,” Charles says, mouth utterly dry. He chooses not to address the first part, mostly because he can’t focus on anything else for very long besides the way one of Erik’s hands—his real hand—has moved to cover Charles’ own, pressing even that down too against the rail.

“I have my quirks,” Erik acknowledges, so calm and casual while Charles feels like he’s teetering on the edge of a canyon with a solar surfer that has its sail jammed in the folded-down position. “I think it’s safe to assume that we _all_ do, no?”

Charles swallows. Even his body is at odds, his front and face cold, nearly frozen by the wind, but his back is warm, leaving him torn between wanting to lean away from Erik if only to clear his head and wanting to lean back into the cyborg for more. “Yes,” he says, his voice coming out steadier than he thought it would, “we do.”

“Good,” Erik breathes, heavy with intent, and this time Charles shudders, gripping the railing tightly, and almost lets out a small sound when Erik abruptly pulls away, the cold air shocking against his back. “I’m afraid I’m too tired tonight for a chess game,” Erik says, sounding completely unaffected, “I’ll see you in the morning, Charles.”

“Goodnight,” Charles manages to respond after a second’s delay, and then he hears Erik’s boots clunking on the wood as he walks away, purposefully loud.

It is several long, cold minutes before Charles is able to move too, and while he tells himself that it’s because he’d wanted to let the wind clear his head, he knows that that isn’t the reason in the slightest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chess set in this fic that Q did an awesome replication of is based on [this](http://pangeasplits.tumblr.com/post/78603745675)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View a masterpost of all the art from Chapters 1-3 [here](http://garnetquyen.tumblr.com/post/88588851255/to-rattle-the-stars-art-master-post-part-1-after)!
> 
> Small warning for discussion of past suicide/background character death.

 

 

X

 

“Pull it tighter.”

“I’m trying.”

“Not hard enough. Now pull.”

“I’m not the one with the _bloody_ automated arm that can probably lift five times my weight—”

“That’s good. Tie it down. Quick, don’t let any slack get into the line.”

Charles loops the line around the notch in the boom, tying off the rigging with one of the knots Erik had taught him earlier last week, pulling it tight until the fibers creak loudly in protest. With a sigh, he straightens, feet wobbling a little in the footropes that keep him suspended high above the deck below.

Erik stands on a nearby crosstree, leaned back casually against the mast. “Well done. It’s not easy work, is it?”

“What was even the point of all that?” Charles asks, wincing a little as his back throbs. He’s just finished re-rigging the Klirodótima’s third mast, folding down each sail and lashing the delicate solar cell fabric carefully down in place, only to turn right back around and unfurl them all again, struggling to tie their braces down again as the sails filled with wind again immediately.

“Because now you know how the rigging works,” Erik answers casually, flicking at Nightcrawler as the little Morph bounces around him. Erik had helped when necessary, on the huge forecourse sail that Charles would never have been able to hold on his own, but otherwise had merely sat back and directed while Charles scrambled to do the work without plunging to his death. “It’s important to know how your sails are rigged if you plan on sailing.”

“Just admit it,” Charles says, turning himself around carefully so he can sit on the boom, holding onto one of the braces he’s just tied, “you just couldn’t think of anything else for me to do.”

“I could’ve just had you swab the deck again,” Erik says, but he sounds amused, eyes glinting as he regards Charles from his steadier perch. “But I assumed you would prefer the educational over the mundane.”

Charles tips a smile at him, warmth blooming in his chest. “Thank you. I know I complain a lot, but really. I’m actually enjoying myself.”

“Are you,” Erik says dryly, but he catches Nightcrawler in one hand, reaching up and snagging him without warning, and tosses him over to Charles, hitting him in the face with a splat.

“Don’t knock into me!” Charles protests as Nightcrawler darts around him with a gleeful cackle, transforming into a huge fly completely with buzzing sounds.

“ _Knock! Knock! Knock!_ ”

Charles bats him away with a laugh, and Nightcrawler streaks down to the deck below, transforming into a large grinning mouth that sticks out its tongue and blows a loud, wet raspberry on his way.

“Little devil,” Charles says fondly, watching for a moment as Nightcrawler sneaks up on a couple of crewmembers and steals one of their hats, resulting in a long chase around the deck. He snorts when one of them trips over a coiled rope, faceplanting on the deck with a thud that’s loud enough for Charles to hear, even way up the mast.

When he realizes that Erik has failed to reply, he looks up and finds Erik watching him, intent and serious. Charles’ grip on the brace tightens. He hasn’t forgotten their conversation from two nights ago, alone on the deck, Erik’s body covering his own. In fact it’s been the opposite—he hasn’t been able to _stop_ thinking about it.

“What?” he asks, feeling bold.

“Nothing,” Erik says, deliberately casual, and Charles rolls his eyes.

“Whatever.”

“So what does one do on Montressor for fun?” Erik asks, after a few moments of nothing but the wind whistling by. The Klirodótima sails across the same open, empty space as she has the past few days, leaving the edges of any normal, regular map further and further behind. “Surely you didn’t spend your entire time doing the dishes for your stepfather.”

“What, you mean like how I do for you?” Charles teases, and this time it’s Erik’s turn to roll his eyes. “No, I didn’t. I liked to solar surf. I was pretty good, actually.”

“A regular pro?” Erik asks wryly, but his eyes have lit with interest.

“I built all my own boards,” Charles tells him stoutly, “the only thing I never built completely on my own was a sail, but I was working up to it. I was planning on asking Hank for help getting the material before—” he waves a hand around them, gesturing to the ship and open space in general, “—all this.”

“Boards,” Erik repeats, “how many did you own?”

“Just one at a time,” Charles answers with a grin, laughing a little, “but the police would confiscate them every time they caught me surfing where I wasn’t supposed to be.”

Erik laughs, the same real and true laugh that he’d given over the card game, and Charles’ grin widens reflexively, happiness buoyed by the sound. “So, Mr. Xavier, not so straight-lace as you’d have us all believe. You’re a delinquent.”

“I probably still have nothing on _you_ , Mr. Lehnsherr,” Charles answers, mock-accusingly.

Erik shakes his head, another small laugh escaping. “No,” he agrees, “probably not.”

“Well,” Charles says, lightly teasing, “at least you’re honest.”

“You surf, but have you ever taken out a skiff?” Erik asks him suddenly, straightening a little from his lazy slouch and eyeing him keenly.

Charles shakes his head. “No, I haven’t.”

“Good,” Erik says, beckoning, “today’s your lucky day.”

 

X

 

It takes both of them to lower one of the three small, eight-foot skiffs that the Klirodótima has down from where it’s stowed, hanging suspended in the belly of the ship. Erik pulls a lever and with a loud grinding sound the bottom of the ship opens completely, a wide gateway that looks down into bottomless empty space.

Charles takes the line at the bow while Erik handles the stern, carefully lowering the little skiff in tandem. Charles grasps the line tightly with both hands, watching the little pulley at the roof of the bay and then scrambling to tie the line off when Erik gives the signal, leaving the skiff hanging out below the ship, swaying gently.

Erik hops down into the smaller boat, holding his arms out wide to keep his balance as it rocks for a moment. When the boat is still again he looks back up at Charles and lifts a hand, holding it out invitingly. “Come on. It’s not that far.”

Charles hesitates for only a split second before jumping, dropping down the scant few feet into the skiff below and grabbing onto Erik’s hand. He stumbles a little as his impact makes the boat rock again, reflexively grabbing onto Erik’s shoulders to keep from toppling over. Erik holds him steady as the boat rocks, calmly keeping both of them balanced.

“Thanks,” he says, his face somewhere in the vicinity of Erik’s chest.

“Untie the bow for me,” Erik says as he lets go, leaving Charles struggling not to mourn the loss of his warm proximity, “and then come sit back here, you’re steering.”

Charles picks his way across the low, wooden seats, ducking under the boom and edging his way around the small mast until he can reach the line tied to the front cleats of the skiff. The little boat pitches forward gently once it’s free, but then corrects itself once Erik has untied the line at the stern. They drift gradually down from the ship, gliding on nothing, and without being asked Charles hoists the solar sail while Erik fiddles with the simple controls on the tiller for the rudder. This sail is far easier to handle on his own than any of the ship’s huge sails, and even when it billows open proudly he still manages to rig it in place without trouble.

There’s just enough room for both of them to squeeze in together on the little bench right in front of the tiller, Erik’s warm body plastered against Charles’ side and their knees knocking together. Erik shows him where to put his hand on the tiller and then covers Charles’ with his own, directing the skiff away from the Klirodótima so they’re no longer hovering in its shadow.

“The button here will fire the thrusters if you need them,” Erik explains, demonstrating once so that they jerk forward, picking up speed, “and squeeze the lever here to break. The better you are, the less you’ll need to use the thrusters in the first place unless you’re racing.”

“Is that a challenge?” Charles asks with a grin.

“Maybe,” Erik replies with a faint smirk. “Other than that I don’t really need to explain the sail or the extra dimensions since you’re a solar surfer. The boat is just like one of your boards. Lean into her and she’ll follow.” He removes his hand so Charles alone holds the tiller. “Start off slowly until you—”

Charles jams his thumb down on the button, gunning the thrusters and letting out a wild whoop of excitement as they blast forward, rocketing out into space. Erik grabs onto the side of the skiff as the boat bounds along invisible gravity lines, coasting through yellow-green stardust with a huge splash, splaying particles everywhere in their wake. Charles laughs in delight, pulling the tiller hard to the left so the skiff veers right, sail snapping out full and catching a strong burst of solar energy so that everything around them becomes a wild blur.

He zigzags them through the stardust, diving in deep until it’s nearly impossible to see and then pulling up sharply so that they burst out of the space cloud, trailing dust behind them. Charles hears Erik give a laugh as he maneuvers them through a perfect flip, followed by a corkscrewing spiral that has the mast and boom creaking ominously. He levels them out, coasting more serenely as the stars and dust sparkle around them, as if the entire galaxy is glowing.

“Not bad,” Erik says, and there’s no mistaking his satisfaction, Charles fighting the urge to preen. He nods off the port side. “Check it out.”

A blazing comet is passing by, so bright that Charles throws up an arm across his face even as he races their skiff towards it. They’re not fast enough to catch up with its head as it hurtles through space, but Charles takes it in stride, steering the skiff right up beside the icy tail of the comet and exchanging a grin with Erik before heaving them sideways, plunging them into the cold. Frozen hydrogen and oxygen molecules glimmer around them and brush across Charles’ face, melting once they come into contact with his by-comparison warmer skin and covering him with a glittering sheen of ice cold water. The world has gone bright neon blue as they soar through the comet’s tail and exhilarated, Charles can’t help laughing again, the sound bubbling out of him in pure joy.

 

 

 

He angles them downwards, dropping out of the icy stream and craning his neck back to watch the comet continue its solitary journey through space, ice trail slowly dissipating as it draws further and further away. He wipes the water off his face and reaches forward to shake the sail once, dislodging the water drops that have collected on the solar cells like dew, and then guides the skiff back towards the Klirodótima, which hasn’t altered her course while they were busy zipping around, sailing on sedately.

“You’re a natural,” Erik says, stretching his long legs out in front of them and leaning back idly, “so what’s a genius-level chess player and solar surfer prodigy been doing cooped up on Montressor?”

Charles shoves at his shoulder gently, even while he holds their course steady so that they sail alongside the Klirodótima, several yards off of the bigger ship’s starboard side. “It’s not that I wanted to stay on Montressor,” he admits, leaning back too so that they both lounge comfortably in the skiff, looking up at the stars overhead and all around them, “but I didn’t have much of a choice. After Cain ran off, my stepfather became even more overbearing than he already was, and barely let me go visit Hank down the road, let alone even _talk_ about going off-planet. And I would have felt guilty, anyway, about leaving my mother.”

Erik is quiet for a moment. “What happened to your real father?” he asks, intuitive as always.

“He shot himself in the head one afternoon,” Charles says, calm and detached. “It was completely out of the blue. We’ve never understood why. We were a happy family. Or at least I thought we were. I don’t know. I was only five.” He shrugs. “But anyway, as much as I wanted to get off of Montressor and see the galaxy, I didn’t want to leave my mother alone. Not after that.”

“And this time?” Erik asks gently. No _I’m sorry_ , always spoken with good intentions but is never more than empty words, and no sympathetic noises or pity. Erik merely assesses and accepts, which Charles finds as refreshing as the comet ice on his face.

“She all but ordered me to go,” Charles answers wryly, grinning softly. “Turns out she was ready and waiting for me to go all along. Well, at least since I’ve been of age.”

Erik makes a small noise indicating that he’s still listening but Charles isn’t sure what else to add, content to sail on in comfortable silence for a few moments. They should head back onto the Klirodótima sometime soon, as the afternoon has all but expired and dinner won’t exactly prepare itself, but neither of them move, still pressed together with only the tiller between them, relaxed and at ease.

“My mother is the one who taught me how to cook,” Erik says thoughtfully, as if calling up a long-forgotten memory. Charles keeps his body loose and lax, but otherwise he’s mentally sitting up straight and alert, eager for anything Erik is willing to share. “I don’t do her recipes any justice, but she taught me.”

Charles casts about desperately for something to say, and in the end he can’t come up with anything more than, “I’m sure she’s proud anyway. You’re feeding a lot of people with those recipes, which is all a cook can ask for, right?”

Erik hums once. “She’s gone,” he says, just as light and detached as Charles had spoken, but he presses his knee against Charles’ in assurance. He holds up his robotic arm for a moment, flexing his fingers and then patting his matching leg. “Same day I got these. Bit of a turning point.”

“Well I suppose you scrapped through,” Charles answers, aiming for easygoing and light, hoping that he comes across as such. He doesn’t want Erik to think he pities him, especially since Erik gave him the same courtesy, but it doesn’t stop Charles from silently mourning for Erik’s loss.

He knows he’s successful when Erik gives him a small grin in understanding. “What are you trying to say about my robotics, Xavier?”

“You’re a heap of scrap metal at best, _Lehnsherr_ ,” Charles answers with a perfectly straight face, and then laughs when Erik gives him a rough nudge.

“Take us back in before I decide to toss you over the side after all,” he orders dryly, kicking his feet up on the bench for the ride.

Charles shakes his head but obeys, carefully guiding the little skiff back towards the Klirodótima, sliding underneath her belly where the bay door still sits open wide, waiting for their return. Erik sits up at that point to help bring the skiff into a hover beneath the ship, matching their speed perfectly so that they can get to work retying the lines onto the cleats at the bow and stern. They hoist the boat back into the ship together, folding down the sail again once they’re safely inside.

“Thank you,” Charles says abruptly when Erik offers him a hand again to climb back out of the skiff, the bay door in the floor slowly sliding shut. “I really...that was fun.”

“Fun,” Erik repeats casually, as if testing the word out.

He still holds Charles’ hand, thumb brushing across Charles’ knuckles. His eyes travel down Charles’ face, dropping down to his lips and Charles takes a breath, parting them slightly without really meaning to and Erik leans down—

“You have ice in your hair,” Erik murmurs, so close that Charles can practically taste the words, and he reaches up and deftly brushes a few tiny, frozen shards out of Charles’ hair. Then he smiles, lips curling slowly at the corners before it spreads to his eyes, which crinkle with knowing amusement. “See you in an hour for dinner.”

Then he turns and walks away, leaving Charles standing alone in the bottom of the ship’s hold and feeling as if he was just blindsided by a comet all over again, the memory of Erik’s lips mere centimeters from his own replaying over and over and over again in his mind.

 

X

 

Entire stars are formed, born out of dust and burning for billions of years before gradually fading into darkness, before dinner is over. Or at least it feels that way to Charles, who spends most of the meal tight and on edge, a coiled up spring that’s ready to snap. It’s the same sensation as before, as if he’s back on his solar surfer and teetering on a ledge, only this time he knows exactly which way he wants to fall and is waiting for the right gust of wind to give him that extra little push.

Erik ignores him entirely, exchanging a few snarky, borderline impolite comments with Raven as he always does, and making a few wisecracks with various crewmembers as they shuffle through to fill their plates. Unlike Charles, the captain’s position on the steward and crew has not shifted, still overall disapproving even while she continues to lead their voyage. Hank comes through but Charles barely registers what the astrophysicist is saying when he starts babbling about whatever notes he’s been taking, too busy watching the planes of Erik’s back shift as the steward serves out the night’s soup.

He finally is brought jarringly back to the conversation directly at hand when Hank repeats, which Charles has a sinking feeling is probably for the third or fourth time by now, “Are you alright, Charles?”

“I’m fine,” Charles assures him quickly, but Hank looks less than convinced. It doesn’t take a doctorate to see that Charles is distracted. “It’s been a long day. A long week, really. A long two weeks.”

“Have they kept you hard at work, then?” Hank asks, taking two of the crispy bread rolls that Charles is in charge of doling out this evening. “You’re not regretting coming, are you?”

“No, not at all,” Charles replies, with such strong vehemence that Hank blinks. Charles offers him a small smile. “A lot of hard work, yes, but I’m enjoying it. It’s been incredible so far.”

Hank beams. “It has, hasn’t it? And it will get even better when we reach—” He remembers himself halfway through and clears his throat. “When we reach our destination.”

“Let’s hope so,” Charles answers, giving him a wink.

“Budge over, doc, some of us have been doing _real_ work all day.” Cain shoulders Hank aside, his hulking form alone making the already cramped galley seem positively stifling.

“Cain,” Charles greets him coolly, dipping his head once to Hank as the scientist makes an apologetic face and then scurries off back into the mess hall. Like Charles, Hank had been less than ecstatic about the discovery of Cain onboard and does everything in his power to avoid him—unfortunately, Charles isn’t as lucky.

“Saw you took a skiff out today with Lehnsherr,” Cain says as he pretends to mull over which piece of bread to take. “You’re getting awfully cozy.”

“He’s technically my boss,” Charles answers stiffly, just barely refraining from flinging the tray at his stepbrother and telling him to get lost, “he’s supposed to be overseeing me. Today he decided on teaching me some sailing.”

“Careful, Charlie,” Cain warns him softly, but his gaze is anything but friendly as he looks down at Charles from his superior height. “This isn’t Montressor, where everyone is somebody’s cousin’s friend’s uncle’s coworker’s son, and everybody gets together for Sunday dinner. You trust the wrong people, and, well.” His eyes glitter as he smirks. “You’ll be _fucked_.”

“And here I was hoping that time away would help you learn how to make sense when you open your mouth,” Charles says flatly, picking up one of the rolls and dropping it onto Cain’s plate as a clear suggestion. “Too bad.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Cain says with a little laugh, but then mercifully he leaves, ducking his head in order to make it back out of the galley. It’s a pity that he doesn’t do them all the favor of knocking himself unconscious instead, Charles thinks as he watches him go.

His eyes track back to Erik, more out of habit than anything else, he tries to tell himself unconvincingly. Erik’s watching Cain go as well, that same dark and unreadable look in his eyes that he always gets whenever Cain is involved with anything. It makes Charles feel as if he’s handling a loaded keg of gunpowder, with no idea as to if or when it will explode, or out of what end it’ll blow first—Cain, or Erik.

He preoccupies himself with storing the leftover bread for tomorrow before Erik can catch him staring, and ends up getting into a small mock-fight with Nightcrawler, who has morphed into one of the pieces of bread and tries to steal another. By the time he’s wrestled at least half of the roll out of Nightcrawler’s mouth, the rest being a complete lost cause, Erik’s already slipped out of the galley to join the rest of the crew in the mess.

Slightly disappointed, Charles gathers his own portion of the meal and ends up sitting down at the end of one of the tables with Hank, listening to Azazel tell one of his stories from his younger Fleet days. On any other night Charles would have been just as enraptured as Hank is, but tonight he’s distracted, his thoughts are millions of light years away—or perhaps just on the opposite side of the mess hall.

When he’s finished eating he means to slip back into the galley and get a head start on all the dishes, but Azazel taps him lightly on the shoulder. “The captain would like to see you in her office,” he explains calmly to Charles’ politely bemused look, “you may return to your duties afterwards.”

Raven is waiting for him when he arrives, offering a brisk, “Enter,” when Charles knocks. She’s standing near the cabinet where the map is safely locked away, arms folded neatly behind her back. “Good evening, Mr. Xavier. I trust that you’ve been enjoying our voyage thus far?”

“Yes ma’am,” Charles answers honestly, smiling a little, “I have been.”

“Superb.” Raven nods once. “As we draw closer to our intended destination, I’d like for you to keep a weather eye on our motley crew. You haven’t noticed anything untoward happening about the ship, have you?”

Charles shakes his head, brow furrowed. “No, ma’am.” He’s seen Azazel break apart a few of the men whenever the bickering starts edging towards something closer to an actual fight, but it never takes more than a curt word from the first officer and the grumblings themselves are always over small, inconsequential things anyway. “Erik keeps me busy as it is, though, so it’s not like I’ve seen everything.”

“And how is our esteemed steward?” Raven asks, pacing slowly back and forth in front of the cabinet. “How has his character and conduct been thus far?”

Charles blinks. “I enjoy his company, ma’am,” he answers slowly, “I’ve learned a lot from him. I’m glad that you assigned me to him as my taskmaster.”

“Hm,” Raven says, long and considering. “Nevertheless, do keep a close watch on him especially. I still don’t like the smell of this crew.”

“Surely if there were any plans for a mutiny, it would have happened as soon as we left sight of Crescentia,” Charles points out, belatedly adding, “ma’am. It’s been over two weeks now.”

Raven gives a thin smile, her golden yellow eyes glowing in the lantern light. Her blue scales are dark in the dim light, making her appear as if she has a deep shadow across her face. “If you’ve so enjoyed your lessons from Mr. Lehnsherr, then here is one from me: one can never be too cautious, Mr. Xavier. Certainly not while one is sailing, and certainly not when one is far beyond the edges of any regular map in the galaxy, with a crew of _un_ certain origins and...allegiances.”

“You’re the captain, ma’am,” Charles answers carefully, “I’ll keep an eye out.”

“That I am,” Raven agrees firmly. “Very good, Mr. Xavier. I shall see you bright and early in the morning, I expect.”

“Yes ma’am,” Charles says, summoning a smile. “Goodnight.”

The mess is dark and empty when Charles makes his way back down the stairs, navigating carefully around the tables and benches towards the glow of light still coming from the galley. He comes to a stop on the threshold, prepared to face down a mountain of dirty dishes, and is pleasantly surprised by the sight of Erik up to his elbows in a bucket of suds, humming quietly to himself as he scrubs a plate.

He glances up at Charles, unruffled. “Good talk?”

“Sorry to disappear,” Charles says, stepping into the galley and dragging another footstool over to sit opposite from Erik across the water basin and grabbing a bowl off of the dirty dish pile, “I can get the rest of these.”

“No harm done,” Erik says dryly, amused by Charles’ apology. He stays where he is, finishing cleaning the plate in his hands and setting it aside before moving on to another. “You’ve never shirked your duties once. Dishwashing can hardly compare to the captain wanting a word.”

“I know how to handle responsibilities, I’m not a child,” Charles answers, equally dry.

“You are a delinquent, though,” Erik points out, eyes glinting in the cheery glow of the galley lanterns.

“I shouldn’t have even bothered to tell you that,” Charles groans, and flicks soap at Erik when he laughs. Nightcrawler takes this as a cue to cannonball into the bucket, splashing them both with warm, soapy water and morphing rapidly from spoon-fork-knife in the blink of an eye as Erik curses and tries to grab him, slipping out of the cyborg’s grasp every time. Charles tries to snatch him too and nearly succeeds but then he morphs into a slippery bar of soap, shooting out of Charles’ hand and back into the air, zooming up towards the ceiling with a giggle.

“One of these days I’m going to stick you in the freezer,” Erik warns, but there’s no real threat behind it and even Nightcrawler knows it; he turns into a large ice cube that sticks out a large pink tongue in response.

Charles takes advantage of Erik’s distraction and smears a huge handful of soap bubbles across his face, giving him a makeshift white beard that has Nightcrawler cackling up above them. Erik whips around, eyes narrowed, and then Charles finds himself with a headful of soap, little bubbles crackling minutely in his ears as Erik uses both hands to cover his head. All-out war follows next, with no goal besides covering each other with as much soap as possible while Nightcrawler darts back and forth overhead, helping and hindering them both.

 

 

They only stop when Charles nearly faceplants in the water tub, sending a large amount of the water slopping over the side and splattering out onto the floor. He exchanges a sheepish grin with Erik and they settle down a bit, drying off with hand towels and finishing scrubbing the remaining pile of dirty dishes, standing side-by-side at the counter while they dry and stack everything neatly.

“What did our illustrious captain have to say to our resident cabin boy?” Erik asks as they work, and Charles has to tear his gaze away from watching Erik’s hands, which can nearly cover the plate he’s drying when spread wide, before answering.

“Not a lot,” he says, keeping his voice casual and unconcerned even while he continues to watch Erik out of the corner of his eye, “she just wanted to make sure that I wasn’t being too lax. I told her that I barely have time to breathe on my own, with all the work you give me.”

Erik snorts quietly, carefully setting the dish at the top of his tall stack. “It’s character building.” His posture remains just as relaxed, and he doesn’t seem to take any further interest in the subject. Not sniffing for answers, then. Just asking out of politeness.

Charles respects Raven, but in this case he’s the one who knows Erik better between the two of them, not her. He puts the last cup away and then stretches, working out the kink in his back from standing over the counter for so long.

Erik’s gaze travels blatantly up and down the long curve of Charles’ body. “Chess?”

“Not too tired tonight?” Charles asks, half-teasingly, even as he slowly straightens. Erik’s been begging off their chess games the past couple nights, which has put a large dampener on Charles’ schedule—the chess games have become such a regular staple at the end of the day that going back to his lonely little hammock in the crew quarters had been extremely dissatisfying.

Erik opens his mouth to reply but stops, eyes catching on something just above Charles’ head and staying there, whatever he was going to say forgotten.

“What?” Suddenly self-conscious, Charles turns and looks around but there’s nothing that he thinks Erik could be staring so intently at.

“You have soap in your hair still,” Erik answers, his voice suddenly a lot closer than it had been just a moment ago, and when Charles turns his head back he’s nearly face-to-face with Erik as the taller man leans in close, deftly wiping at the top of Charles’ head with his dishrag. His gaze tracks back down to meet Charles’, wider and deeper than the whole galaxy, and containing just as many mysteries. “There.”

Charles draws in an unsteady breath, because Erik is so infuriatingly _frustrating_ , and he’s not sure who moves first but before he realizes quite what he’s doing the last few inches of space between them are gone and their mouths slot together at last in a kiss.


	5. Chapter 5

 

X

 

Charles’ hands fist in the front of Erik’s shirt and Erik’s hands settle on Charles’ shoulder blades, drawing him in closer so that they’re pressed together as Charles’ eyes flutter shut and he parts his lips with a soft sigh, allowing Erik’s tongue to slip into his mouth, tasting each other for the very first time.

Charles has been kissed before, both by girls and boys, but none of them hold even a candle to the bonfire of Erik’s kiss, deep and filthy and perfect. Erik commandeers the kiss, setting a slow, unhurried pace even as Charles leans up on his toes for more, sucking on Erik’s tongue. Erik’s hands slide lower down Charles’ back, squeezing Charles’ ass and dragging him up and forward, lifting him high enough so he can back Charles onto the counter and deposit him on the newly cleared surface.

 

 

They break apart for air, panting wetly against each other’s mouths. Charles moves his hands up to tangle with Erik’s hair, parting his legs so Erik can stand in between them, their crotches pressed up against one another with warm, delicious pressure. They kiss again for a few long moments, still languid, and Charles finds himself enjoying taking things slow and steady.

“I’ve been waiting for you to do that for a week,” Charles says breathlessly when they come up for air again, leaning his forehead against Erik’s.

“I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you,” Erik replies, voice low with amusement, “staring at me suspiciously with those big blue eyes.” His hands are never still, tracing every muscle in Charles’ back, rubbing up and down slowly as if he can’t stop touching every part of Charles.

“I’m supposed to keep an eye on you,” Charles murmurs, tugging lightly on Erik’s hair, “just in case you’re up to something.”

Erik smirks lazily, eyes half-lidded. “I can help you with that.”

Without warning he lifts Charles up again, pulling him forward off the edge of the counter where he’s perched and lifting him by the thighs, just below his ass. Charles yelps in surprise, seizing onto Erik’s shoulders and squeezing Erik’s hips with his legs, but nips at Erik’s lips when Erik gives a low laugh and allows himself to be carried across the galley towards Erik’s bedroom.

He laughs when Erik barely pauses to kick the door open, carrying Charles across the threshold and taking the two short steps over to the bed, dropping him gently down on the mattress. Charles kicks off his boots and scoots backwards, moving further back across the bed while Erik turns back around to shut his door again, but not before he reaches up with one hand and snags Nightcrawler out of midair.

“Go away, squirt,” he says, flicking the little Morph back out into the galley. Charles catches a glimpse of Nightcrawler changing into a miniature Erik, squeaking indignantly, “ _Go away, squirt! Go away, squirt_!” before Erik slams the door shut.

“That was mean,” Charles says solemnly.

“You know me,” Erik answers, toeing off his own boots and then kneeling on the edge of the bed with an almost predatory glint to his eye, “I’m positively beastly.”

Charles’ serious expression breaks and he laughs again as Erik lunges forward, fitting himself neatly over Charles and pinning him down against the bed. Charles only pretends to struggle for a moment but that tapers off when Erik claims another kiss, just as deep with roving tongues as the ones they’d had out in the galley; Charles falls still beneath him in favor of wrapping his arms around Erik’s shoulders and back to hold him down in place. Erik’s solid, heavy form above him feels utterly perfect, and Charles can feel a low, simmering heat beginning to coil in his belly, his cock taking interest in the proceedings and beginning to thicken between his legs.

“Hello,” Erik says, one warm hand sneaking down in between them to fondle Charles’ crotch, and Charles jolts with a soft intake of breath. “What _do_ we have here?”

“The same thing we have here,” Charles answers, rolling his hips up to grind against Erik’s front where he can feel Erik’s cock pressing hot and hard against the fly of his trousers.

Erik growls, the sound reverberating up through his chest and making Charles shudder, gasping into Erik’s mouth as Erik squeezes him again, rubbing his large, warm palm repeatedly over his cock and kissing him senseless at the same time. Charles spreads his legs and plants his feet flat on the bedspread, his knees bracketing Erik’s body, and closes his eyes as he rocks his hips up into Erik’s touch. It feels very warm in the cozy little cabin, and Charles knows he’s flushed from a combination of both that and his steadily growing arousal.

Erik moves down from Charles’ lips to his throat, trailing open-mouthed kisses in his wake. He reaches Charles’ collarbone and sucks a mark there, teeth scraping lightly against his skin.

Charles fists his hands into Erik’s shirt, pulling it off over his head. Erik’s bare shoulders are broad and well-muscled, and for a moment Charles traces the faded scars on Erik’s right shoulder that surround each of the metal plates drilled into skin and bone that connect his robotic arm to his shoulder socket. He suddenly realizes what he’s doing and pulls his hand back quickly.

“Sorry,” he says, cheeks heating, “I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t mind,” Erik interrupts with a lazy smirk. He moves his hand away from Charles’ crotch only to shove up the fabric of Charles’ shirt, making it ride high on Charles’ chest. “Get this off.”

“Bossy,” Charles accuses, but acquiesces, shimmying a little back and forth beneath him to get the shirt up and over his head. He’s barely given time to toss it haphazardly aside when Erik wraps his hands around both of his biceps and pins his arms down to the bed, gaze ranging greedily across Charles’ bare chest. Charles swallows, the heated, possessive way Erik regards him making him flush hot all over. “Erik?”

In lieu of answering, Erik presses him down harder and then lowers his head to lick at one of Charles’ nipples, rolling the little nub around with his tongue. Charles jerks again with a soft cry, startled, but then he moans when Erik closes his entire mouth around his nipple, sucking on it until it stands up taut in his mouth, laving at the bud over and over again until Charles is gasping beneath him, twisting in Erik’s grip and arching his back up into the strange, foreign sensation that nevertheless isn’t unpleasant at all.

Erik holds him down without budging, sucking on his nipple until Charles is rock hard in his pants, wetness leaking out against the fabric. The cyborg licks a long, wet line across Charles’ chest to his other nipple, neglected thus far but still pebbled up at attention. He swirls his tongue around the areola, teasing, and then grazes his teeth lightly across the bud.

“E-Erik,” Charles stutters, his back losing its arch as he drops back down flat against the bed, trying to pull away only to have Erik follow him down, still latched to his chest like a limpet. “ _A-ah_ —”

“Relax, sweetheart,” Erik says, words brushing right against Charles’ sensitive skin and making him shiver, hands fisted in the bedsheets. Erik sits up, loosening his grip on Charles’ arms and stroking his biceps gently with his thumbs to soothe the ache left behind from his previously unforgiving grip. “Have you done this before?”

It takes Charles a few moments to put together what Erik’s even talking about, lying still beneath him and panting. “Yes,” he says, thinking briefly of the experimenting he’d done back when he and his classmates had been at the right, curious age, romps after school that had fulfilled the urges of young, hot blood but had otherwise had never been meant to last. “Well not the—” he breaks off and flushes scarlet as he glances down at his chest, his nipples pink and abused, shining slightly with Erik’s saliva. “But I’m not a virgin.”

Erik nods, believing him without question, another slow smile sliding across his face. “Good.”

He flips Charles over without warning, pushing him down flat on his belly with one hand splayed out across Charles’ back. Charles squirms for the feel of it, rubbing his clothed erection against the sheets frantically for a few moments as Erik settles above him, the friction only a temporary fix for the need and lust boiling beneath his skin. Erik still has his trousers on too and he ruts against Charles’ backside, pressing his bulging crotch to Charles’ ass and rocking his hips, bracing his hands on either side of Charles’ head.

Given enough time, Charles thinks hazily as they frot against each other, a small moan escaping him every time he feels Erik’s dick catch against him, he could eventually come just from this.

“Please, Erik,” he gasps against the sheets, rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric while his cock strains against the front of his pants, so hard that he aches, “please, please—”

“Lift your hips,” Erik growls in his ear, pulling back just enough for Charles to have enough room to do so. His hands snake around Charles’ hips, long, clever fingers undoing the front of his trousers and pulling them away, peeling them down Charles’ legs to his knees and exposing his ass to the air.

Charles jerks with a whimper when one of Erik’s hands—his real one, not the robotic one—brushes against his leaking cock with his knuckles, dropping further back to fondle his balls, massaging them slowly until Charles is panting again, rocking back and forth where he’s arched up awkwardly beneath Erik, precome smearing against his belly with every motion.

“Down,” Erik commands, withdrawing his hand to push down lightly on the small of Charles’ back until Charles is laid flat again, cock trapped between the sheets and his stomach. “Now spread,” Erik says silkily, pulling Charles’ legs apart as far as the trousers pooled at his knees will allow, spreading him out on display. When Charles wiggles, meaning to kick his pants further down his legs, Erik says sharply, “Leave it,” and Charles stills, waiting breathlessly.

He stays where he’s been put even when he feels Erik draw away, his warmth and weight disappearing, the mattress dipping as he moves across it to reach over into his trunk. Charles thinks he must look obscene, lying how he is on the bed, quivering with anticipation as he listens to the rustle of Erik removing the last of his own clothing before returning back over to where Charles is arranged, the tension between them nearly palpable.

Erik puts a knee in between Charles’ legs, right on top of the trousers stretched between them so that Charles’ legs are pinned in place, pant legs now like shackles. Charles curls his fingers into the sheets as the sound of a bottle being uncorked with a soft _pop_ comes from somewhere behind him, the cool palm of Erik’s robotic hand pressing against the middle of his back grounding him in place.

“Erik!” Charles lets out a high, muffled sound when the first, teasing finger slips down between his asscheeks to toy with his hole, tracing the rim with something wet and slick that makes him shudder when it drips a little onto the back of his thigh. The touch is maddening, not nearly enough and Charles struggles where Erik has him perfectly pinned, trying to find the leverage he needs to rock back more but unable to move much at all.

He moans when Erik slides the finger inside him, slow and gentle at first and giving Charles plenty of time to adjust to the intrusion, stretching him open a little at a time. Without thinking Charles tries to push himself up but Erik’s other hand keeps him down in place, holding him there while he slides his finger back and forth inside of Charles’ ass, the glide of skin on skin made easy by the oil.

“You’re doing well,” Erik murmurs, his cock hot and hard against Charles’ thigh as he rubs his finger against Charles’ inner walls, pushing in deeper, “that’s it, take it like that.”

Charles pants wetly against the sheets, a damp spot from his breath growing larger as he tries in vain to move his hips, wanting nothing in the universe right now except _more_. The muscles in his legs burn and strain where they’re forced open wide, but right now it feels good even though it prevents him from moving how he wants to. Erik slides another oil-slicked finger inside his hole beside the first, making Charles groan low in the back of his throat at the stretch.

Erik moves his fingers back and forth inside Charles’ ass, the wet squelch of oil and flesh absolutely filthy as the digits plunge in and out of him, opening him up for what is to come. Charles can only lie there and take it, clenching a fold of the sheet between his teeth to keep from crying out and waking the entire ship, each deep, inward press of Erik’s fingers sending white hot sparks of pleasure dancing up his spine until his body is one long, loose and quivering mess. He feels overheated, sweat pooling at his lower back even though Erik isn’t even covering him completely, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead.

Erik’s fingers brush against something deep inside Charles’ ass and hot, bright heat erupts within him, entire body going stiff as pleasure floods his entire system, a loud moan tearing its way free from between his teeth and his hips jolting against the bed, dragging his cock along the fabric in a slick line of precome. Erik makes a pleased sound and does it again, pressing the little bundle of nerves that has Charles crying out this time, rolling his hips mindlessly back and forth between Erik’s fingers and the bed, fucking himself on Erik’s hand and rubbing his cock against the mattress like an animal in rut.

“Perfect,” Erik says, drawing his fingers back out of Charles’ ass in a slow drag that makes Charles whimper. His other hand strokes Charles’ back soothingly, calming him a little as he shifts around behind him. When his fingers slip completely out of Charles’ hole he feels himself clench down tightly on nothing, squeezing his eyes shut at the emptiness.

“Fuck me,” Charles pants, hips still moving on their own accord. He can’t stop, too worked up to stay still and desperate for release. “Fuck me, Erik, _please_ —”

“Of course,” Erik says, his voice oddly gentle and Charles feels a soft kiss against the back of one of his thighs, right beneath the curve of his ass. “Hold still for me, sweetheart.”

His hand on Charles’ back disappears, but before Charles can even think to sit up or twist around there’s a small pause before Erik settles down over him completely, his solid, warm chest pressed to Charles’ spine. The blunt head of his cock presses forward to catch at the rim of Charles’ hole, dragging across it once, twice as Erik leisurely rolls his hips.

“ _Erik_ ,” Charles all but begs, pressing his ass back against Erik’s groin, “just—”

“Charles,” Erik purrs, right against his ear, and then pushes his cock into Charles’ hole, slowly at first when the thick head stretches Charles open wider than even his fingers had, before it slides in with a wet pop and the rest of Erik’s long, hot cock follows, sliding all the way in with one smooth thrust.

Charles lets out a choked gasp, split open on Erik’s cock. He’s never felt fuller in his entire life, the practically throbbing heat buried in his ass all he can focus on, everything else in the universe fading out to background noise. It hurts, a few tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes as his mouth gapes open wordlessly, struggling to breathe, but then he remembers to relax, willing his muscles to unclench and loosen so that Erik can fit inside him more easily.

“Alright?” Erik asks, holding himself perfectly still to allow Charles time to adjust. Charles can feel him trembling slightly with the effort, but his voice is steady enough. His hands rest flat against the mattress on either side of Charles’ head and Charles instinctively wraps his fingers around one of Erik’s wrists, holding on tightly to steady them both.

 

 

“Yes,” Charles says after a moment, when breathing comes easier and he can string words together again, “but move. Please _move_.”

“So polite,” Erik observes, and before Charles can bite out a retort he pulls his cock back and then snaps his hips forward, fucking back into him in another smooth glide that has Charles gasping, toes curling. Erik starts to move in earnest, long, steady thrusts at an even pace, slamming his cock into Charles over and over again with brutal precision.

Small, incoherent noises fall from Charles’ lips with each thrust, the sounds fucked out of him. Each time Erik’s thick cock drags across the sweet spot inside him stars burst behind his eyes, the slap of Erik’s balls against his ass mere background noise to the pounding of Charles’ heart in overdrive as he rolls his hips counterpoint to Erik’s, driving Erik deeper and deeper inside himself.

He is a planetesimal, shaped by force and heat to mold his body back against Erik’s, molten hot all over and he nearly believes that they could melt into one, joined together at the hips with Erik’s chest plastered against his back. Erik speeds up with a grunt, fucking Charles hard and fast and only serving to increase that roiling heat.

Tension is building inside him, his back starting to arch and curl up into Erik as it builds, like radiation in a solar cell waiting to be converted into kinetic energy. Charles can feel it coiling in his belly, aching cock rock hard as even his balls tense up, pushed closer and closer to the edge by every long stroke of Erik’s cock inside him, helpless cries still forcing their way past his lips as he pushes up to meet every single one of Erik’s downward thrusts, arms and shoulders aching but he’s _so close_ now—

Erik mouths at the back of Charles’ neck, scraping his teeth against skin and goosebumps race down Charles’ back, his pace stuttering to a halt without meaning to, caught torn between the dual sensations of the hot, thick length in his ass splitting him open wide, and Erik’s tongue on the back of his neck, an intimate spot that Charles never knew before could affect him in such a way, trembling under Erik as Erik continues to thrust into him.

He bites down on the back of Charles’ neck with a vibrating growl when he comes, slamming his hips down one more time and burying his cock deep inside Charles’ ass and shooting off hot and sticky, coating Charles’ inner walls. Charles shudders, full body, another moan wrenching its way out of his throat and mouth as Erik undulates his hips a little through the aftershocks of his orgasm, still fucking into Charles. He half-collapses forward onto Charles, nearly crushing him down against the bed, but he keeps himself propped up on his robotic arm while his other hand snakes beneath them, fingers closing around Charles’ cock.

Charles cries out as Erik fists his hand around his cock, palm and fingers callused from the hard, grueling work of an experienced spacer but covered in oil and precome so the slick drag is perfect and _good_ , and it only takes three toe-curling tugs before Charles shakes apart under Erik’s command, spilling tacky white stripes of come over Erik’s fingers and his own belly.

Almost immediately afterwards all his bones and muscles turn to jelly and he faceplants on the bed, nerves wrung out and tingling from the best orgasm he’s ever had, little shivers jolting through him. Erik follows him down, splayed out over him with his face buried in Charles’ hair, slowly softening cock still buried in Charles’ ass.

He isn’t sure how long they stay like that, collapsed in a sweaty, sated heap in the middle of the bed, Erik’s warm and solid weight like a heavy comforter draped over him. Eventually he feels the need to breathe properly, struggling a little to fill his lungs all the way with Erik bearing down on him, so he shifts with a small sound, nudging back against Erik to get him to move.

Erik makes a low sound that Charles feels all over, vibration traveling through him like an electrical pulse. He picks himself up carefully off of Charles, delicately pulling his spent cock out of Charles’ ass. It slips out in a wet glide, a stream of come dribbling out of his hole that makes him squirm until Erik palms his ass, soothing.

“Good?” Erik asks, settling down on the narrow bed beside him, so that Charles is tucked in between Erik’s body and the wall of the little cabin.

He rolls over onto his side to face Erik, sliding a hand up to wrap around Erik’s animatronic fingers while Erik’s real fingers comb gently through his hair, smoothing it back from his damp forehead. More come leaks out of his ass but Charles finds that he likes it, evidence of Erik’s claiming, and the thought is accompanied by a flush.

“You scrapped through,” he says very seriously, his voice thin and hoarse, but then his facade breaks and he laughs when Erik rolls his eyes.

“Now _that_ was mean,” Erik says dryly, but leans forward and kisses him, slow and burning and Charles loses all track of time again.

“Can I stay here tonight,” Charles asks sometime later when even the lanterns have finally burned all the way out and they’re wrapped around each other even more tightly on the bed, legs tangled and chests pressed close.

Erik has an arm dropped down around Charles’ back, holding him to himself, and at Charles’ words he presses Charles even closer with his strong grip, as if daring Charles to try and break loose. “Yes,” he says, murmuring the words right against Charles’ lips, “stay.”

Charles smiles, steals another willingly-given kiss, tucking his head under Erik’s chin and breathing him in, and stays.

 

X

 

Breakfast passes in a warm haze, with a lot of long, lingering looks exchanged between them. Erik reminds Charles of the cat that used to frequent the back steps of the inn, calm and lazily content as it lounged out in the sun, but Charles himself feels like he could power all the sails on the ship with his glow.

He’s never felt like this before about anyone—he’s had crushes, back at school at the age when everyone does, but they’d been quick and fleeting things, doomed to taper off into nothing and unable to stand against Charles’ love for the freedom of the sky. Erik, however, is someone who he can share the sky with, share the whole open galaxy with, a fact that Charles knows with unshakable certainty, as well as that this time the feelings are meant to last.

Even Hank seems to sense a change in him, blinking blearily while Charles ladles some grits onto his plate. “You’re chipper this morning,” he says sleepily, squinting at him through his glasses.

“Just excited for what’s to come,” Charles answers him, grinning conspiratorily. It’s not an _entire_ lie, but not exactly the whole truth either. What Hank doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and Charles has a feeling that Hank is quite happier _not_ knowing.

He keeps beaming at Hank, even while he flings a spoonful of grits at Nightcrawler, who is making large kissy-faces at him over the astrophysicist's shoulder.

Hank doesn’t even notice, yawning widely. “Oh, me too. But it’s too early to be that...that.” He gestures vaguely at Charles with one hand and then ambles off to collect a mug of the hot, bitter coffee brewing on the other side of the galley.

Erik is standing near the pot, and he lifts a mug of his own to take a long drink in order to hide the grin curling at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ve got the dishes,” he says later, after everyone is finished eating breakfast and has headed out to their posts, “go get some fresh air.”

“Showing favoritism already, Mr. Lehnsherr?” Charles teases, putting the stack of plates he’d just lifted back down. “And I’ve just told the captain that you work me to the bone every day, too.”

“Then get out of here before I change my mind,” Erik says dryly, but nudges Charles’ shoulder with his own companionably.

Charles turns fully so he can lean up and brush a soft, fleeting kiss against Erik’s cheek and then darts out of the galley, running up the steps of the mess and emerging out onto the deck above. Space is wild around the ship, vast curling nebulae of every color imaginable spiraling on into oblivion, reflecting and refracting light in a dazzling array that makes Charles shield his eyes at first as he looks out over the side. The ship sails across an arm of one of the nebulae serenely, stardust sparkling in her wake.

It’s humbling, Charles thinks as he cranes his neck back, looking up at the dome of stars and far-off galaxies above them. The ship is tiny. _He’s_ tiny, no more than a speck of a speck on the grand scale of the Universe, just a small handful of molecules tossed together but no different from any one of the stars except for his atoms are arranged in a different way. He could have just as easily been born a star instead, burning hot and bright in the void of space, a mindless nuclear reaction that would never be able to look out and _wonder_.

Bones could’ve crash landed somewhere else—on the other side of Montressor, or on a different planet altogether. The map could’ve fallen into different hands. Hank could’ve rejected the idea of adventure, or could’ve hired a different ship. A different crew. There are so many different ways these chances could’ve played out, but Charles is glad that he’s exactly where he is right now, and that things are exactly as they are.

He’d spent a lot of time back on Montressor while growing up wishing to be someone, anyone else with better fortune. Now he couldn’t ask for better fortune if he tried.

“Slacking off, Charlie?” Cain’s voice comes abruptly from directly behind him, making Charles hold back a sigh. “Shouldn’t you be swabbing the deck or something?”

“What’s it to you?” Charles asks, turning around to face his stepbrother. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, untangling rope again?”

“Missed you last night,” Cain says, for once not rising to the bait and Charles immediately wishes that he had anyway, “you didn’t come down to your hammock to sleep. What’s a cabin boy doing up all night?”

“Were you really up waiting for me?” Charles asks coolly, even as his nerves tingle. “That’s a bit creepy, Cain.” There’s no point in lying, not if Cain has already noticed him missing, but Charles doesn’t have to tell the truth either. “I was up looking out for awhile. Wasn’t tired right away. I did come back later but you must’ve already been asleep by then.”

Cain smiles, nothing pleasant about it. “Didn’t see you this morning either.”

“I have to get up early to help with breakfast,” Charles points out, raising his eyebrows.

Cain’s smile only widens. “I had first watch. That means I’m up before you, and you weren’t there.”

Charles opens his mouth to respond but a blast goes off without warning, so loud that for a moment his vision goes grey and fuzzy, enormous shockwaves buffeting the ship so violently that Charles is thrown off his feet, hitting the deck hard as the ship rocks wildly. Ears ringing, Charles lifts his head, disorientated and dimly aware of the rest of the crew swarming the deck, Cain climbing back up to his feet beside him and taking off running.

His hearing cuts back in abruptly, just in time to hear Hank shouting somewhere above him, “—gone supernova!”

“All hands on deck!” Azazel cries, and Charles is jolted into action, scrambling back up to his feet and sprinting over the still-tilting deck towards the main mast. “Secure your life lines!”

Charles reaches the mast just as Erik emerges from the mess, grabbing two coils of rope that hang off the circle of short posts ringing the mast. He tosses one to Erik and then sets about tying the end of the other tightly around his waist, tying himself on a lead line to the ship. Erik finishes his own swiftly and then reaches over to cinch Charles’ even tighter, warm hands lingering at Charles’ waist for an extra second.

The first blast has blown all of the nebula dust away and Charles can see the dying star now, exploding outwards in a huge, devastating ring of burning debris, its remains glowing an angry red. The first wave of it reaches the ship, a hailstorm of fiery rocks that blast through their sails, leaving behind tiny holes that grow dangerous in number—too many and the sails will be all but useless to them, and they’ll be stuck to drift for a long, long time.

“Secure the sails!” Azazel shouts, and Charles doesn’t hesitate to follow the rest of the crew, climbing up the masts to pull in the sails.

Charles clambers up the shroud as fast as he can, holding onto the rope ladder as tightly as the ship rolls back and forth. Down below on the deck, someone has hopped into the chair of the plasma cannon and is shooting down as many of the incoming asteroids as possible, breaking up the bigger ones into smaller pieces before they can smash into the ship. Charles watches for a second too long and the distraction makes him lose his footing for a moment, stumbling as he misses the rope but Erik is directly beneath him and grabs Charles’ foot and pushes him back up.

Together they pass the lowest sail and climb further up to the middle of the three, edging out onto the boom. In the turbulence of the explosion, it takes both of them plus two more crewmen to pull the sail in, solar cells flaring brightly in the exponentially increased radiation from the supernova, and Charles fumbles twice with the line before he’s able to tie it off, lashing the sail down tightly.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Erik still knelt, pulling tightly at his own knot, when a small piece of flaming rock crashes into the brace right where Erik’s hands are. Erik jerks back reflexively, losing his grip as the motion throws him off balance, arms windmilling, and then he loses his already precarious footing entirely and plunges backwards off the boom.

“Erik!” Charles shouts, diving forward and snatching up Erik’s life line. He grits his teeth when the line goes taut and throws his entire back into pulling up, yanking Erik onto the boom before he can smash onto the deck below.

“I’m alright,” Erik says with a grunt as he climbs back on, putting one hand on Charles’ shoulder as Charles drops the line to help him stand, “thanks, Charles.”

Charles can only smile in relief, heart still pounding at how abruptly Erik was almost wrenched away, but then a shadow falls across the ship and he looks up in horror.

A huge chunk of molten rock barrels towards the ship, five times as big and approaching too fast to evade now that their sails are down. Charles can only stand frozen on the boom with Erik, watching as it hurtles towards them, drawing closer and closer until he can feel the heat coming off the glowing red cracks in the partially-melted rock. It’s going to smash the ship to smithereens on impact, Charles thinks frantically, and there’s nothing they can do to stop it from happening. He reaches over and grips Erik’s hand as the asteroid looms over the ship, bracing for—

It happens in slow motion, the rock coming to almost a dead stop right beside the ship, what feels like only inches away, and then to Charles’ utter confusion it falls back, reversing direction and flying back the way it came.

“Captain!” A shout comes from high overhead in the crow’s nest as the ship leans over dangerously far, beginning to plunge after the asteroid. “The star!”

Just as abruptly as it had exploded, the dying star begins to implode, dragging all its matter back into itself in a swirling mass with huge pinwheels of fire spiraling outwards. At its core is darkness, gaping open wide, and suddenly Charles understands.

“It’s devolving into a black hole!” Hank shouts, and hearing his friend close to panic only makes things worse.

“Come on,” Erik says grimly, giving him a gentle tug, and together they clamber back down the shrouds to the deck as the ship careens towards the black hole, caught up completely by its inescapable pull.

They’re doomed. The ship drags across the event horizon of the growing monstrosity, swirled around with dust and other debris like a whirlpool as they draw closer and closer to the crushing darkness that not even light can escape. A huge flare of energy bursts out of its edges, sweeping over the ship in a gigantic wave that knocks everyone clear off their feet, Charles’ fall softened only by Erik who grabs him again as they hit the deck.

“Blast these waves,” Raven snarls, taking control of the wheel before it can spin out of control, leaning against it hard in a futile attempt to get the ship turned around, “they’re so deucedly erratic!”

“No, Captain, they’re not!” Hank shouts, motioning frantically at one of the instrument panels beside the wheel, and together he and Raven hunch over the screen.

“Are you alright?” Erik asks, helping boost Charles back up to his feet. He regards Charles intently, eyes sweeping up and down his frame once in assessment.

Charles rubs the elbow that he scraped against the deck but shakes his head helplessly. “Does it matter?”

Erik lifts one shoulder in an easy shrug, and his calm is grounding. “It does to me.”

Despite himself, Charles smiles.

“All sails secured, Captain!” Azazel calls as the last of the crew scrambles back down the masts to the deck.

“Yes, of course!” Raven exclaims to Hank, and then leans far over the wheel, sharp gaze finding her first officer. “Good man! Now release them again immediately!”

Azazel’s face twists in confusion, but he nods. “Aye, Captain. You heard her, men! Release the sails!”

The crew grumbles and curses but obediently heads back up the masts to do as they’ve been told. Charles means to follow Erik, one hand already gripping the first rung of the shroud, but Raven stops him.

“Mr. Xavier,” she calls, “see that the life lines are all good and tight!”

“Go on,” Azazel says, moving in beside him and giving him a nod, “I’ll help with the sails.”

“Aye, Captain!” Charles calls, letting go of the shroud and running across the deck towards the base of the mast. He makes a quick loop around it, tugging on each of the lines tied to the posts to tighten them. “Life lines secured, Captain!”

“Very good!” Raven says, and then focuses her gaze ahead on the looming black hole, yanking the wheel hard to port.

Charles feels rather than see the sails reopening overhead, unfurling with sharp snaps and catching on the radiation from the black hole. The ship swings back around, so fast that Charles grabs onto the mast with both arms to keep from being thrown completely off the side. The ship now faces away from the black hole, as if she hopes to sail away unscathed, but unable to achieve enough power and velocity to outrun its hungry pull. Slowly, they’re dragged backwards towards the darkness.

“Brace yourselves!” Raven shouts.

The crew slides back down to the deck on ratlines, and Charles turns his head to see Erik thumping back down on both feet, their gazes meeting before the cyborg throws himself forward to press Charles down against the mast, his chest to Charles’ back as they tense, waiting. The ship starts to fall, the air growing icy and cold, ice crackling as it forms abruptly across the wood. Charles’ stomach drops down to somewhere in the region of his feet as they roll back into complete backwards freefall, the only warmth he has left now is Erik at his back and light is starting to fade as darkness overtakes them—

It begins as a rumble, a low growling sound from within the depths of the dark, and then with an ear-shattering roar the black hole releases a gargantuan burst of energy, exploding forth in a wave of cosmic radiation that fills their sails, the solar cells glowing so brightly that they hurt to look at. The ship’s thrusters spring back to life, their own rumbling growl lost to the sound of the black hole behind them, but suddenly they’re soaring forward, blasting out of the black hole and surfing on the energy wave to safety.

The crew lets out a wild cheer as they coast out of the black hole’s range, no longer trapped by its deadly pull, and Charles finds himself joining in, heart pounding in exhilaration and triumph instead of fear. Even Erik is grinning, cool and calm as ever, and when no one is looking, still caught up in celebrating, Charles steals a quick kiss, just a fleeting brush of lips that allows him to taste Erik’s smile.

Raven brings the ship back down to a normal speed now that they’re in calmer, safer open space, thrusters powering down to allow the supercharged sails to do most of the work again. The crew gathers at the base of the stairs as she descends from the quarterdeck, arms folded neatly behind her back and wearing a satisfied but proud smirk.

“Well done, men,” she says, coming to a stop halfway down to address them all. Charles stands beside Erik as they listen, forearms brushing. “Truly superb teamwork. We wouldn't have gotten out of that snafu if it weren’t for each and every one of you. All personnel accounted for, Mr. Azazel?” She blinks when no prompt response is forthcoming, looking around. “Mr. Azazel?”

Cain steps forward, head bowed. In his hands he carries the hat that belonged to Raven’s first officer. “Mr. Azazel has been lost,” he says quietly, offering the hat to Raven, who takes it from him dreamily slow, as if in shock, “I’m afraid his life line was not secure.”

Charles _feels_ the color drain from his face, all the happy giddiness from their daring escape evaporating in an instant, leaving behind a cold, creeping dread, not unlike the pull of the black hole they've just broken free from.

“No,” he says numbly into the heavy silence when Raven looks up from the hat in her hands to stare at him, “that’s impossible, I—I _checked_.” He wheels around towards the main mast to look, to show them all proof, but even from here he can see one of the posts is empty, with no line attached. “I swear I checked them all,” Charles says faintly, mostly to himself even as his horror continues to grow, suffocating, “I _swear_ it.”

 

 

Raven is silent for a beat before she clears her throat, visibly composing herself. “Mr. Azazel was a fine spacer,” she says, a small tremor in her voice before she steels herself to continue, “finer than many of us could ever hope to be. But he knew the risks, as do we all.” She turns to leave, taking a step back up the stairs, hat hanging limply from one hand. “Resume your posts. We carry on.”

The crew slowly disperses, muttering, but Charles hears nothing, still staring at the empty post. He’s dimly aware of Hank’s horrified gaze on him before the astrophysicist turns away to follow after Raven, and of Erik, still at his side, quiet and steady.

“Charles,” he says quietly, and it causes something to snap inside him, breaking him out of his blank stupor.

“I rather think I’d like to be alone,” Charles says distantly, and without waiting for an answer he takes off across the deck at a run, putting as much distance between himself and the main mast as possible.

Erik doesn't call after him. No one does.

It’s a small relief, tiny in the vastness of space.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note for anyone interested in translating this fic - a lot of you have asked, particularly for permission to translate it into Russian, and now there are so many of you that I'm no longer sure who is actually translating and who has defaulted. Consider this my **blanket permission for anyone to go ahead and translate this fic** , as I can't keep track myself anymore. All I ask is that when you post your translation, **please provide a link in your post back to the fic here for credit and also drop me a link to your post too so that I can see it.** If you're planning on posting your translation here on AO3, I'm more than happy to link the fics together as the system allows. Thank you all for your interest!

 

X

 

Erik finds him later, long after even dinner has passed. Charles sits halfway up a shroud facing out into deep space and doesn’t turn around even as he hears the telltale heavier stride of Erik’s robotic leg on the wood of the deck as the cyborg approaches.

“Nice night,” he says blandly, leaning against the railing just below Charles. Nightcrawler hovers at his shoulder, looking up at Charles hopefully but drooping when Charles doesn’t hold out a hand to encourage him closer.

“I’m sorry I didn’t help with lunch and dinner,” Charles says distantly. He’s spent the entire day avoiding everyone and everything, unable to bring himself to face the staring or the whispering. He’s directly responsible for the death of a man.

He hasn’t cried, but earlier at one point he did dry heave over the side.

“It’s fine,” Erik answers, calm, calm, so _calm_ and Charles wonders how he does it. Erik toys idly with a toothpick that sticks out of the corner of his mouth, elbows braced on the rail. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

Charles lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Yes it is. The captain asked me to check the lifelines. I wasn’t as thorough as I should’ve been. It’s my fault.”

“Or the rope could’ve already been rotten,” Erik says, “or an asteroid hit it by chance and burned it up, or any other number of countless things that you have no control over.”

Charles stands up, hopping down off the shroud and landing next to Erik, looking up at him with slightly wild, wide eyes. “Right, and what are the chances of those verses the simplest explanation? You heard Cain. The line wasn’t secure. It’s _my fault_.” His voice cracks at the end and he whispers, “I doomed a man to death in a black hole.”

Erik turns to face him slowly, a small frown marring his smooth expression. “It would’ve been over quickly, in any case,” he begins carefully but Charles cuts him off, frustrated and angry, though mostly with himself above all else.

“Oh thanks ever so much, Erik,” he says shortly, turning to go, “I feel _loads_ better now.”

Erik stops him, one hand wrapping firmly around Charles’ upper arm and halting him in his tracks. “Who cares what Cain thinks,” he says, still even and measured but his eyes are intent on Charles’ face, “who cares what the rest of the crew thinks. You heard what Raven said. As spacers, we all know the risk of this life. We know it well, but we don’t let it stop us.”

Charles inhales once, sharp and shaky, because he wants to take comfort in Erik’s words but there’s still a part of him that holds back, believing that he doesn’t deserve any form of consolence at all—not while he’s still safely on the ship and Azazel is lost. He doesn’t fight, however, when Erik gently tips his chin up, gazing down at him with such unwavering conviction and just like that Charles feels the turbulence of his emotions settle, calm and peace washing through him, like finding oasis in a storm.

“You’ve got the makings of greatness in you, but you’ve got to take the helm and chart your own course,” Erik says, and his words leave Charles breathless like a solar flare blasting dead-center into a full sail, buoying him up into the stars at full steam ahead. “You can’t let the likes of Cain, or your stepfather, or _anyone_ bring you down and hold you back. You’re bright, Charles. You shine brighter than that supernova. Whatever you choose to do after this voyage is complete, you’ll be brilliant.” He pauses and smiles, slow and warm and only for Charles. “And I hope I’m there, catching some of the light coming off you.”

Charles feels himself smiling, his traitorous eyes slightly damp. Nightcrawler coos softly, darting forward to rub against Charles’ cheek. “Thank you,” he whispers, unable to come up with anything more heartfelt or profound that would do any justice to how he feels right now, soaking in Erik’s regard like a solar cell in the sun. Since they’re alone on the deck he leans up to kiss Erik softly, hoping that that at least conveys some of his emotions and how he feels for the cyborg in the gesture alone.

“Come to bed,” Erik murmurs when they break apart, and Charles nods.

Erik takes Charles’ hand to lead him back down from the deck through the mess and the galley, his grip light and barely there but he smoothes his thumb across Charles’ knuckles every now and then so Charles is content to follow him quietly, heart doing something funny in his chest. Erik pulls him into his cabin but stops him before he can climb onto the bed, squeezing past him in the cramped space to shut the door firmly behind them, locking them in.

Standing in the tiny space has their bodies already pressed close, the ever-present warmth that Erik seems to radiate cutting down instantly on the chill from the deck above. Charles stands still and allows himself to slowly be stripped, one article of clothing at a time, Erik deftly maneuvering his arms for him through the sleeves of first his jacket, followed a moment later by his shirt. They hold eye contact the entire time, Charles’ head tilted back slightly so he can look up at Erik and only losing sight of him once when it comes time to pull his shirt off over his head for a brief moment.

He takes the initiative to step out of his boots, kicking them gently aside while Erik’s clever fingers get to work on his trousers, tracing down his belly to rest on his belt buckle, undoing the clasp without looking and pulling the zipper down. Everything is done slowly, deliberately, Erik using almost reverent care as he helps Charles step out of his trousers and pants, bending down so Charles doesn’t have to lift his feet overly high. He even straightens slowly, fingers skimming up the sides of Charles’ thighs and hips, eyes following the trail of goosebumps that follow. Charles shivers when they reach his ribs, sucking in a small breath when Erik’s gaze flickers up to meet his own again.

“You are truly lovely,” Erik murmurs, more to himself than to Charles as he brushes across Charles’ compact shoulders, and he sounds so much older than he actually is that Charles has to laugh, even as he blushes, both from the praise and from the fact that he’s standing in front of Erik fully naked while Erik is still fully dressed.

“Let’s see how you measure up, then,” he suggests, his voice a lot more steady than he feels, and gets to work on returning the favor.

He starts with Erik’s shirt too, leaning in to press a light kiss at the small hollow beneath Erik’s throat and between his collar bones before pulling the shirt away and letting it fall to the side. Erik’s shoulders are broader than his own, arms and chest more muscled and toned, as if he’d worked in overtime to get his body up to the standards of his robotics. He traces the scars around the connectors of Erik’s arm for a moment, just as fascinated by them as he’d been the night before, but then drops his hands down to fumble with the ties at the front of Erik’s trousers.

Unlike Erik, Charles has to look down to see what he’s doing, and with the two of them standing as close as they are his nose is nearly brushing against Erik’s chest. He takes a slow, deep breath in, Erik’s scent flooding his senses; cooking spice, plain soap, a hint of the grease he uses on the joints of his arm and leg, and something that is distinctly _Erik_ , masculine and comforting. The ties loosened, Charles slides his hands down flat against Erik’s impossibly narrow hips, chasing the feeling of skin and slipping them underneath the waistband of Erik’s pants and gently tugging everything down to pool at the top of Erik’s boots.

Charles sinks down to one knee in front of him, tilting his head back to smile up at Erik with hooded eyes. Erik remains standing up straight, but takes a juddering breath when Charles breathes lightly on the thickening cock that he’s currently eye-level with, smile widening when it practically stands up to wave at him. His own cock is turgid and heavy between his legs, arousal pulsing through him in gentle waves at the slow pace they’re taking.

He helps Erik out of his boots, pushing them aside to join his own and banishing Erik’s pants and trousers too, so that now he’s no longer alone in the nude. He hasn’t gotten a close look at Erik’s robotic leg before now, as he’d spent most of his time facedown on the bed last night, but now Charles looks his fill. It’s constructed out of the same alloy as Erik’s arm, extending all the way up an inch or two past where his knee should be, leaving most of his thigh still fully intact. The knee joint is surprisingly simple but his foot and ankle are complex, a mass of gears and small, swiveling parts, and Charles is amused to see that instead of just a flat stump Erik has five toes on the end of his foot, matching his natural one.

“You’re extraordinary,” he says, nuzzling his face against the skin of Erik’s thigh, and smiling again when he hears Erik give an intake of breath. He turns his head sideways, so that he’s face-to-face with Erik’s definitely-interested cock. “And so are you.”

“Charles,” Erik warns, but Charles is pleased to note that his voice isn’t nearly as stern as he probably wants it to be.

“I could stay down here if you want,” Charles offers, watching almost greedily as a single pearl of precome collects on the head of Erik’s cock at the suggestion. “It looks like you do.”

Erik wavers for a moment, one hand sliding through Charles’ hair, massaging right against his scalp. It feels so good that Charles nearly moans. “No,” Erik says after a moment, bending to half-help, half-lift Charles back up to his feet, “I have other things in mind.”

“Do you?” Charles asks, swaying slightly at the sudden change of altitude, but then Erik kisses him again, drawing him in close and pushing his tongue in past Charles’ lips to lick at the inside of his mouth, wet and filthy. Their cocks brush, sending a single jolt of electrifying heat through them both and this time Charles does moan, right into the kiss, hips rocking forward and seeking more.

Erik tips him back onto the bed, giving him half a moment to scoot backwards before following. Charles moves to roll over onto his stomach like last night but Erik stops him, keeping him on his back and saying, “No, like this,” and Charles makes a small, involuntary sound when Erik parts his legs, moving in to kneel between them while holding them splayed apart wide, exposing every last inch of Charles to his glinting eyes.

Charles’ cock is fully hard now, pressed up against his belly and leaking, feeling a little helpless where he lies on his back while Erik grips his legs gently but firmly. He drags Charles down the bed and closer towards him, drawing him up until Charles is bent nearly in half, hiking Charles’ legs up over his shoulders. Charles can only fist his hands into the sheets and shout when Erik dips his head down below his cock and balls to lick his hole, hands holding Charles’ thighs in place when Charles reflexively tries to twist away from the sensation, cock twitching.

“E-Erik,” he stammers when Erik does it again, probing the ring of muscle around Charles’ clenching hole with his tongue before licking across it, the touch so foreign and intimate that Charles feels lightheaded. “Oh, oh, _oh_ —”

Erik pushes his tongue into Charles, and Charles loses the last of his coherency. His legs lock down around Erik’s shoulders even as he squirms, unable to stay still as Erik laps at him, fucking him with his tongue. He doesn’t know what he wants more, to pull Erik’s face down as much as possible so that he can get his tongue inside him deeper, or to escape the overwhelming, wet and sloppy touch entirely as it threatens to take him apart, undo him completely.

He’s babbling, back arched up off the bed and hips jerking with what little leverage he has as Erik licks him out, only peripherally aware that his legs must be squeezing Erik tightly as he tries to close them without actually meaning to. His chest is heaving, pink with a full-body flush and his cock is sopping wet, balls drawn up tight as Erik’s nose brushes against his perineum, feather-light but still enough to make every muscle in his stomach seize up.

Erik laves his hole mercilessly, smearing as much saliva on as he can, getting Charles nice and wet. Charles feels himself clench down, aching for more, his need for Erik’s hot, hard cock filling him to bursting so strong now that his moan trails off into a helpless whimper, hands scrabbling on the bed mindlessly while over Erik’s shoulders in the air, his toes curl tightly.

Erik gives him one last lick, pressing an obscene, open-mouthed kiss right against Charles’ hole with a loud, wet sucking noise and Charles comes with a cry, striping white come across his own chest as he flies apart, crashing over the edge of orgasm by Erik’s tongue alone.

He’s dimly aware of Erik lowering him gently against the bed, taking the strain off his lower back. He ranges up over Charles, dragging one finger through the lines of come on his chest and bringing it up to his mouth for a taste, his eyes never leaving Charles’. Charles can only lie still and watch, panting and trembling through the aftershocks of release, parting his lips with a soft sigh when Erik leans down to kiss him. He can taste himself in Erik’s mouth, and the realization makes him shiver.

“Lovely,” Erik repeats when they part, his voice gravelly and raw from sex. Charles can only bat at him weakly, the ability to form actual words still a bit beyond him. He feels utterly boneless and relaxed, cradled down by Erik on the bed, all his tension from the day drained away.

Erik’s cock is still hot and hard against his thigh. Charles’ breath hitches when Erik rocks against him, dragging the head of his cock back and forth across Charles’ skin, leaving a wet, shining trail of precome. Charles lifts his arms, looping them around the back of Erik’s neck and drawing him down into another kiss while Erik continues to unhurriedly rut against him.

Charles can feel his cock stir with interest, ready to go again even so soon after one mindblowing orgasm. He spreads his legs a little wider, enjoying the feeling of the soft sheets whispering against his skin while Erik shifts over him, his weight solid and warm above him.

“Ready?” Erik asks him, and when Charles nods he fumbles with the small bottle of slick with one hand for only a moment before sliding his hand down to tease Charles’ hole with two wet fingers, playing gently with his entrance.

Charles gives a quiet sigh when Erik slips one finger in, his hole still open and loose from Erik’s tongue. Even so, Erik is careful as he stretches Charles wider, adding a second finger and scissoring them until Charles squirms, and only then adding a third. He rubs at Charles’ prostate, pressing against the glands to make Charles moan, lifting his hips up into the sensation once or twice, and it’s odd to be facing Erik this time, where he can see Erik watching him raptly as he fucks himself on Erik’s fingers. His cock is hard again now, standing up to brush against both of their stomachs and sending arousal washing through Charles. He shifts restlessly on Erik’s fingers, blushing but otherwise shameless.

“I want you,” he says, jerking his hips up to grind against Erik and push Erik’s fingers further into himself, closing his eyes at the feeling of his ass so stretched and full. “ _Erik_.”

“Charles,” Erik says in response, drawing out Charles’ name in his perfect, low rumble as he slides his fingers back out of Charles’ ass with a soft wet sound. He shifts forward, bracing his forearms and elbows down on the bed and lining his cock up with Charles’ aching entrance, the head catching against his hole, a slight pressure that is only a small taste of what is to come. “You already have me.”

Charles moans when Erik pushes into him, a burning stretch that extends deeper and deeper into his body as Erik slides in, in, in, finally bottoming out with his balls flush against Charles’ ass. What little experience Charles has had with sex has never involved fucking while face-to-face with his partner, and when he can bear to open his eyes he’s struck by how wrecked Erik looks, mouth fallen open slightly as he holds himself still, fully sheathed inside Charles.

“Move,” Charles urges him, breathless, hands gripping Erik’s biceps, “move, darling, I can take it—”

Erik pulls back and then thrusts forward again, so fast that Charles sees stars and gasps aloud, rolling his hips up and hooking his ankles together at the small of Erik’s back, holding himself open. Like this he can feel every flex of muscle in Erik’s long, toned body, all of that contained kinetic energy and power focused solely on driving into him with his cock.

 

 

Charles’ breath hitches with every forward thrust as Erik speeds up, panting against Erik’s mouth when the cyborg drops down to kiss him, more of a clash of teeth and tongues than a real kiss, devouring each other as their bodies work in tandem. Erik pushes up off his elbows and onto his hands, changing the angle at which he fucks into Charles, thrusting in deeper and longer, dragging his cock across Charles’ prostate with almost single-minded intent.

“So tight,” he growls, the words riding the edge of a groan as he sinks into Charles over and over again, balls slapping against Charles’ ass, “you’re so tight— _Charles_ —”

Charles clenches down around the thick length buried in his ass, squeezing as tightly as he can and relishing how Erik chokes, hips stuttering and losing his rhythm for a moment, another low groan wrenching itself out of his throat. He renews his pace and Charles doesn’t stand a chance, every deep drive of Erik’s cock sending lightning bolts of pleasure lancing up his spine. He comes for the second time this evening, vision whiting out for a moment as he shoots a small spurt of wet and sticky come between them, hands losing their grip on Erik’s arms and falling limply to the bed as he trembles apart with a cry.

His legs lose their strength as well, sliding down off of Erik’s back and falling open wide on either side of Erik’s lithe body. Erik continues to fuck him, relentless, speeding up to an almost breakneck pace until he too comes, hot and wet inside Charles’ ass, stifling his own moan by leaning down and capturing Charles’ lips in one more kiss.

Charles feels wrung out, every single nerve ending lit on fire and completely burned up from his two orgasms. He’s never felt so utterly content in his entire life, comfortable and well-cared for and—loved.

He blushes crimson at the thought, hiding his face in Erik’s shoulder when he lowers himself down to rest for a moment, catching his breath. His cock is still buried in Charles’ ass, slippery with oil and come, but Charles can only focus on the warm, fluttering feeling growing inside his chest, blooming and expanding just like the supernova.

It feels as if it could overtake him in a moment, pull him under like a current and wash him out with the tide.

“Charles?” Erik asks him after a few moments, reeling himself back in to where he has enough presence of mind again to slowly pull out, a small trickle of come leaking out of Charles’ ass in the absence of Erik’s cock and dribbling down onto the sheets.

“I’m fine,” Charles answers because he is, he’s _more_ than fine, and he smiles up at Erik with almost unbearable fondness, a tightness in his chest that isn’t altogether bad. “You...that was amazing.”

Erik smirks, no doubt highly pleased with himself, but he leans down to kiss Charles almost chastely before he rolls aside, dropping down to stretch out on the bed beside him. He wraps an arm around Charles and draws him close, so Charles has no compunctions about snuggling in, letting his heart rate slow and his body quiet after such intense release. He could stay like this forever, he imagines sleepily, and never want for more.

Charles is halfway to dozing, tucked up warm and comfortable against Erik’s side, perfectly content as the cyborg absently traces slow patterns on Charles’ back with one hand until a jarring thought brings him back to reality.

“I shouldn’t stay,” he says, sitting up despite how much he’s loathe to, “Cain was suspicious this morning. He noticed that I didn’t come back last night.”

“Fuck Cain,” Erik says dismissively, one hand slowly creeping up Charles’ bare leg as Charles reaches for his crumpled shirt and struggles to pull it back on.

“The point is that I’m fucking _you_ ,” Charles answers, amused, as he pulls his head through the proper hole and then finds the ones for his arms, “and it’s none of Cain’s business.”

“Mm, say that again,” Erik commands, hand closing over Charles’ hip and squeezing lightly.

Charles grins, twisting around to lean over him where he lies sprawled back against the pillows. “ _Fucking_ ,” he enunciates slowly, letting the word curl around his mouth to sound as posh as possible, and Erik lets out a low, rumbling laugh and yanks him down for a kiss.

It takes Charles infinitely longer to get dressed, but he hardly minds if each interval between each article of clothing consists of long, deep kisses and the occasional grope, until finally he leans down for one last kiss before reluctantly pulling out of Erik’s grasp entirely. He stands by the bed, smiling fondly at Erik who watches him with only barely-cracked open eyes.

“Goodnight,” he says, cracking open the door to leave, and doesn’t protest when Nightcrawler slips in only to settle down on top of his head.

“See you in the morning,” Erik replies, and Charles hesitates a moment, opening his mouth to say the words that rest on the tip of his tongue, but then he merely nods and slips out of Erik’s room, darting through the dimly lit galley and mess and up the stairs to the deck above.

He and Nightcrawler don’t run into anyone on their way back to the sleeping quarters for the crew, which is dark and full of snoring when they arrive. Charles is an expert now at navigating his way back to his own hammock in the dark, stepping carefully and quietly through the hold. He kicks off his boots and crawls into his gently-swaying hammock, curling up with Nightcrawler still nestled in his hair.

Charles drops off to sleep quickly, and no nightmares bother him at all.

X

Charles wakes to something cold and wet pressed right against his face, sitting up with an unintelligible mutter and batting the sensation away. Nightcrawler sniggers, zooming in wild circles around Charles’ head while Charles, still not entirely awake, tries to grab him but ends up flipping out of his hammock onto the hard ground below with a soft thump.

“Nightcrawler,” he mumbles blearily, stifling a groan from the impact. A quick glance through eyes that still won’t open all the way at the shift clock on the far wall tells him that it’s what counts as morning on the ship, so with a huff he gropes around for his boots, finding the first and pulling it on with only a little struggle.

He makes a grab for his second boot but it suddenly flips up into the air, hovering just out of reach. At first Charles is astounded, blinking sleepily in the face of this unknown physics, but then he hears Nightcrawler giggling inside.

“Hand it over,” Charles orders, lunging for his boot, but Nightcrawler shoots up higher out of reach, forcing Charles to scramble up to his feet, highly uncoordinated with limbs still heavy from sleep, and give chase. “Nightcrawler,” he hisses, ducking through the hammocks, some still occupied by sleeping crewmembers while others are already empty, hobbling on one booted foot.

Nightcrawler only chortles loudly, flying faster and bobbing up and down a little under the boot’s weight, heading up the stairs towards the deck. Charles follows, making a dive for him at the top and missing, crashing back down to the wood again but picking himself up in a heartbeat, determined. He chases the little cretin across the deck, barreling down the stairs of the mess when the Morph ducks inside.

The mess is quiet and empty, and more surprisingly so is the galley as well, Erik nowhere to be seen even though all the lights are on and something is baking in one of the ovens. Nightcrawler zips past it all and nudges through the half-open door to Erik’s room, disappearing inside.

“Gotcha,” Charles says, and follows after him.

He’s slightly disappointed that Erik isn’t inside waiting for him when he slips into the room, but he does find Nightcrawler-and-boot hovering over the bed, most likely looking for a place to hide. Charles tackles him down onto the mattress before he can go any further, yanking his boot back and dumping Nightcrawler out into his hand and tossing him around playfully, laughing as the little Morph chirps in delight.

Charles lets him go in order to finally pull his second boot on, lying back to stretch out on Erik’s bed with his legs hanging off the side. He folds his arms behind his head and watches Nightcrawler dart around overhead, content to stay here and wait for Erik to return to the galley. The little Morph flickers through a variety of shapes and images, even turning into a mini-Charles at one point and sticking out his tongue to make the real Charles laugh, tossing a pillow up at him.

Heavy footsteps thunk down the stairs of the mess and Charles sits up, climbing back up to his feet and stepping towards the cabin’s door, a greeting already on the tip of his tongue but then it’s Cain’s voice he hears, not Erik’s, and Charles stops instinctively, hesitating. He snatches Nightcrawler in one fist before the little Morph can dart out into the galley and give them both away, standing just behind the door to listen.

“—don’t see why we just do it now,” Cain is saying, and the sound of a bench scraping across the floor follows as he kicks it aside, “I don’t really see the point in waiting any longer. I thought we were going to get the ball rolling a week and a half ago.”

“The plan has changed,” comes an icy voice, so cold and foreign that it takes Charles a moment to realize it’s Erik, “and you’ll wait as long as I say.”

 

 

“And why’s that, though?” Charles can’t see Cain from his hidden position but he doesn’t have to be able to see his stepbrother to know he’s giving one of his infuriating smirks. “There’s plenty of us and only three of them left. I did you a favor by taking Azazel out, he was the only one we really had to worry about.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Erik snaps, voice growing nearer as he steps into the galley. Charles shrinks back further from the door, one hand over his mouth in horror. _Cain_  killed Azazel. “Darkholme already suspects us enough.”

“Our _lovely_ captain doesn’t suspect a thing,” Cain says with a laugh, following Erik into the galley, “she thinks it’s Charlie’s fault.” He pauses, voice silky. “Or does that bother you, that it’s on Charlie’s conscience?”

“No,” Erik answers, still cold but perfectly even, “there’s only one thing I care about, and it’s reaching Flint’s treasure. I couldn’t care less about a wet-nosed brat from some tiny little outpost on the edge of the galaxy who’s playing at being a spacer.”

Charles reels back from the door, taking a shaky step backwards and forgetting completely about how small Erik’s cabin is until the back of his legs hit Erik’s bed and buckle, leaving him collapsed down to sit on the edge, white-faced and shaking. Erik lied.

Erik lied about _everything_.

“Really?” Cain asks blithely, floorboards creaking underneath him as he walks a slow circle around the galley, feigning an air of mild interest. “I would’ve pegged you different. You and Charlie seemed to be getting real cozy this past week.”

“He was suspicious of me,” Erik says dismissively, unruffled by Cain’s insinuation and so calm as he fractures Charles’ heart piece by piece like one of the mining drills back on Montressor, “he recognized my voice at first from our raid on the inn. I had to throw him off the scent somehow.”

Charles clenches his fists as the initial shock wears off only to be replaced by anger—at Erik, and at himself. He should’ve listened to his instincts. He shouldn’t have let Erik charm him, lowering his guard in the face of someone who seemed to genuinely take interest in him, enjoying his companionship and…

His gut roils and twists, and for a moment he feels close to being sick. They’d _slept_ together. That too was all just a lie. Nightcrawler hovers by his shoulder, blinking huge eyes at him, confused and upset by whatever expression must be on Charles’ face.

“Did you fuck him?” Cain asks, as if reading Charles’ mind even though there’s no way for him to know that Charles is even in the room—for now. He steps into just the right spot where Charles can see him through the slightly cracked open door, wearing a wide smirk that turns Charles’ stomach.

“What business of yours would it be if I did?” Erik asks, a dangerous edge entering his voice. Charles tenses where he sits, shoulders hunching as if preparing for a physical blow.

“Just curious,” Cain says idly, his smirk turning lecherous, and Charles feels a cold, slimy sensation of disgust roll down his spine, “he’s a pretty little thing, isn’t he?”

“He’s your _stepbrother_ ,” Erik says, his derision clear, and at least Charles is granted that from him, and doesn’t have to listen to Erik not giving a damn about this either.

Cain shrugs, and the sickening part is that Charles truthfully can’t tell if he’s being serious or just saying things to goad Erik. “Not like he’s my cousin.”

Erik comes into view when he steps up to Cain and grabs him by the front of his shirt with a fist, dragging the taller, hulking man down so that they’re directly eye-to-eye. His back is to Charles so Charles can’t see his expression from his vantage point but when he speaks his voice could cut through steel, his quiet fury as searing as cold, dying stars. “You’re not to touch Charles or either of the other two unless I say otherwise, do you understand? Disobey my orders like you did with Azazel and I can guarantee you that you’ll be _joining_ him.”

“Touchy,” Cain says, but then winces when Erik twists his shirt further, choking him with the collar. “I’ve got it,” he says in a strained voice, “wait for your cue. As we all are.”

“Good,” Erik says without inflection, releasing him with a small shove that has Cain staggering a couple steps back. He turns around and Charles catches a brief glimpse of his face, terribly expressionless, before Charles ducks back, scooting over on the edge of the bed to where he’s out of sight again, just in case Erik glances towards the door. “We’re not making any moves until we have the treasure in hand. That is final.”

“Aye, _captain_ ,” Cain says sardonically, but at Erik’s growl he turns and walks out of the galley, moving away more quickly than he’d probably like to show. It leaves Erik standing in the galley alone, thoughtfully silent.

Charles’ mind races. A mutiny. There’s going to be a mutiny. Raven was right all along not to trust the crew, and it’s only salt in the wound that Charles had initially agreed with her before Erik had slowly but surely made him change his mind. He needs to tell her and Hank right away, he thinks, standing up. The three of them can jump ship on one of the skiffs and escape with the map before the crewmembers—the _pirates_ —even notice. Nightcrawler gives a soft chirp, tilting his head at Charles inquisitively.

Charles freezes. Out in the galley it’s still quiet, which means Erik hasn’t left. Until he can get to Raven and Hank alone, it’s imperative that Erik doesn’t know Charles just overheard everything, but right now Charles is very much trapped in his hiding space. If Erik heard Nightcrawler and comes to investigate, or even if he ducks into his room for any reason…

He holds his breath, heart pounding, as a couple footsteps approach the door. If Erik finds him in here now, he’ll kill Charles. The truth is like a shock of cold water to the face. Erik’s been planning on killing him all along, and maybe he’s stalling now for whatever reason, but it’s over if he discovers that Charles knows his plans. The ruse will be up, and Erik can’t afford a witness.

Not if he cares so much about finding the treasure above all else, Charles thinks with another churning cocktail of anger and hurt and _shame_. Erik _used_ him. Anything he’s ever said to Charles have been nothing more than empty words, lies that mean nothing. He grits his teeth.

“Planet ho!” a voice shouts outside, echoing all the way down to the galley, and just like that Erik’s footsteps head swiftly away, crossing the mess and climbing the stairs to get topside to see their final destination. Nightcrawler squeaks with excitement and zooms out of the cabin too, leaving Charles alone.

Imminent danger gone, Charles leans heavily against the wall for a moment, sagging. He’s angry with Erik, so much so that he could possibly march right after him and shout at him now, if it weren’t for the fact that it would definitely get himself, Hank, and Raven killed. But beneath the anger is hurt, welling up from somewhere within him and he realizes with a painful twinge that this is what heartbreak feels like.

It feels not unlike a black hole opening quietly inside his chest.


	7. Chapter 7

 

X

 

Eventually, after a long minute of leaning against the wall with his eyes closed to prevent any form of dampness from leaking out, it comes to Charles that he should get out of Erik’s room and the galley before Erik or anyone else returns. With some effort he straightens, wiping his face with the sleeve of one arm and then walks out slowly, numbly, heading for the stairs. He should be ecstatic, if they’ve finally actually reached Treasure Planet, but every part of him feels leaden instead, weighed down and heavy with the truth.

He’s almost to the top of the stairs when Erik nearly runs into him, stopping in his tracks when he sees Charles. Charles is equally rooted to the spot, balancing awkwardly on his step before he puts a hand out on the railing to steady himself, trying to school his expression into something— _what_ , he thinks frantically, _anything normal. Don’t let him see that you know._

“Charles.” Erik takes a slow step downwards and Charles finds himself backing up, going backwards down the stairs until he’s back down in the mess as Erik advances, studying him with an unreadable expression. “I didn’t know you were down here. Didn’t you hear we’ve arrived?”

“Yeah, I,” Charles answers haltingly, his back colliding with the edge of one of the tables as Erik continues to stalk forward, “I was looking for you. To tell you.” He tries to smile, but knows immediately that it comes out strained and wrong.

“Were you,” Erik says idly, but by now Charles knows the glint in his eyes—Erik isn’t stupid, and it won’t take him long to put two and two together. He takes another step, and Charles puts his hands behind himself under the guise of leaning casually back against the table, feeling around carefully for the cutlery left out from someone on the first watch’s early breakfast. “You should’ve stayed above, you missed a good view.” One of his hands is slowly creeping into the pocket of his coat. “I would’ve caught up eventually.”

“Everyone knows what the planet looks like from all the storybooks,” Charles says as lightly as he can, fingers closing around the handle of a knife, and he forces another smile as he adds, “I was more interested in seeing you.”

It makes Erik falter, as he’d hoped it would, hesitating for just a moment at the sentiment but it’s all Charles needs. He lunges forward, ducking down low and jabbing the knife into the side of Erik’s robotic leg, jamming the blade right into the mass of gears that make up his knee. Erik’s leg buckles and he goes down hard, grabbing at Charles but missing spectacularly as Charles darts past him.

“Charles!” he hisses, but Charles is already halfway up the stairs, bounding up out onto the deck. He swivels around wildly, taking in most of the crew still leaned over the side to watch the approach of the fabled planet, neon green in color with two offset debris rings orbiting it, until his gaze finds Hank and Raven, standing on the quarterdeck above.

He doesn’t waste any time, sprinting up the stairs to them. “Get inside,” he says quickly, slightly out of breath as he reaches the top of the quarterdeck and motioning to the door of Raven’s office, “there’s not a lot of time to explain.”

“Whatever do you think you’re doing, Mr. Xavier?” Raven demands as he all but yanks them inside, practically slamming the door shut behind them.

“Are you alright, Charles?” Hank asks in concern, eyeing him warily.

Charles knows he must look wild-eyed and pale, but there’s _no time_. “You were right, Captain,” he says, addressing Raven just as a wild shout goes up outside, “the crew is full of pirates. They’re planning a mutiny, and they’re going to kill us as soon as we reach the treasure.” There’s a loud crunch outside that sounds to Charles like the door of the weapons hold at the bottom of the quarterdeck being broken, followed by raucous cheering. “I think their schedule has just sped up considerably.”

“Pirates on my ship,” Raven says in disgust, springing into action at once while Hank merely stands gaping at Charles with wide eyes. She crosses the room briskly, unlocking her cabinet and throwing the door open, reaching in and taking out a pistol. “I’ll see that they all hang.” She tosses the gun over to Hank, who fumbles with it awkwardly before catching it. “Any experience with one of these, doctor?”

“I—well you know, I—the thing is—” Hank nearly drops the pistol when he accidentally presses the trigger, shooting a bright beam of purple plasma that narrowly misses hitting Raven and incinerates a lamp on the wall behind her instead. “No,” he says sheepishly, “no I don’t.”

The door to Raven’s office trembles under the force of a humongous blow, hinges creaking. Outside the crew jeers, and several more blows follow as the ram the door again and again, trying to force their way inside the office. The wood begins to splinter, groaning under the pressure of the assault. It won’t hold up for long.

Raven huffs out a breath but pulls out the map next, tossing it to Charles. “Defend this with you life, Mr. Xavier.”

Charles reaches out to catch it but suddenly Nightcrawler swoops out of nowhere, snatching up the sphere in his mouth with a giggle. “Nightcrawler!” Charles jumps after him, managing to get the tips of his fingers around the edge of the map and yanking it back. “Give it here!” He pulls it out of the Morph’s mouth with a _pop_ and sticks it safely in his jacket pocket.

“Now then,” Raven says, striding over to Hank and relieving him of the pistol. “We make for the skiffs. Follow me.” She takes aim at the floor and fires, shooting a hole clear through the floorboards. She jumps down through it, disappearing below.

Hank and Charles follow, dropping down into the engine room of the ship just as the door above is blown completely off its hinges with a loud blast, the pirates shouting and cursing when they see the empty room. They don’t linger, Raven leading them through a narrow, twisting path between the heavy machinery that helps power the ship, ducking under bundles of pipes and stepping over thick, coiled wires. Behind them comes the sound of pursuit, crashing footsteps following in their wake, the shouts drawing closer and closer.

“This way!” Raven calls, sprinting through a heavy, iron door and holding it open for them. Hank and Charles stumble through after her and she slams it shut behind them, twisting the wheel that serves as its lock and snatching up the phaser rifle that leans against the wall, using a shot of plasma to solder the door shut. “To the skiff, now, quickly!”

Charles leaps onto one of the skiffs tethered to the ceiling, reaching down to help pull Hank up while Raven jogs across the small gangway and pulls the lever to open the bay doors below. The ship has entered the planet’s atmosphere now, and as the doors slowly roll open Charles looks down at the alien landscape below, miles and miles of wild forest stretching as far as he can see in all directions.

Raven swings the phaser rifle over one shoulder and jumps up into the skiff, passing the smaller pistol off to Hank again. “Let’s get out of here,” she says grimly, bending to jumpstart the skiff’s engine with a guttural sputter.

In the next second two things happen simultaneously—the door to the hold is blasted off its hinges with a huge explosion, and Nightcrawler zips up and plucks the map out of Charles’ pocket, zooming out of reach before Charles can grab him.

“Nightcrawler, no!” Charles shouts, leaping back out of the skiff to chase him. Nightcrawler chortles when Charles hits the ground hard, landing on the narrow gangway between two skiffs, and the little Morph dances back just out of reach, wagging a little tail in glee—a game. He thinks it’s just a game of keep-away.

The smoke in the doorway clears and Erik steps out into the room, a horde of pirates at his back. They open fire at the skiff, with a few answering shots from Raven and Hank sizzling the air in return, but Charles only has eyes for Nightcrawler and the glittering bronze orb in his mouth.

Erik steps over to the levers that control the bay doors, limping slightly, and pushes the lever Raven had pulled down back up. With a loud, grinding crunch the doors begin to reverse direction, now slowly rolling closed again and cutting off their escape. Erik walks out onto the narrow path that Charles stands on, looking not at Charles but at Nightcrawler, holding out a hand expectantly. “Come here, Nightcrawler.”

“No,” Charles snaps when Nightcrawler’s head swivels to look at the cyborg. He makes his voice friendly and inviting when Nightcrawler turns to look at him again, beckoning to the little Morph. “Over here, Nightcrawler! C’mere!”

Nightcrawler wags his tail, drifting closer curiously.

“Nightcrawler, _come_.” Erik commands, still holding out his hand. The Morph wavers, glancing between the two of them in confusion.

“Come on, Nightcrawler, bring it here!” Charles says, trying not to let an edge of desperation ride into his voice, a loud bang echoing through the hold coming from somewhere on the other side of the skiff as the other battle rages on.

“Nightcrawler,” Erik says, taking a halting step forward, “come here _now_.”

Nightcrawler lets out a confused squeak and spins around in midair, flying to neither of them and instead dropping down into a tall pile of coiled rope nearby to hide. Erik makes a lunge for it, but his robotic leg buckles beneath him again, Charles’ stab wound doing its job as he hits the deck. Charles runs over to the rope and reaches inside the coils to snatch up the map, looking down to meet Erik’s gaze for one frozen, suspended moment, before he glares and whirls around, sprinting back to the skiff.

“Now!” Raven shouts as Charles jumps on, and she and Hank turn their plasma guns to the ceiling, shooting at the lines that hold the skiff up.

Charles is nearly flung back out of the skiff again entirely when it drops abruptly, slamming down onto the half-closed bay doors before pitching forward, falling down into empty, open air. He grabs onto the side with a cry, clinging on as tightly as he can while he dangles over the edge and struggles to pull himself up.

“Charles!” Hank cries, grabbing onto him and pulling him fully into the boat, and then they’re all plummeting in a spiralling freefall, the planet below rushing up to meet them.

“Get the sail open!” Raven shouts over the sound of the wind, and Charles staggers over to the mast and pulls the sail open just as a loud boom of cannonfire deafens him, and he looks back up.

“Laser ball incoming!” Hank cries, pointing at the crackling blue ball of energy hurtling through the air towards them, and there’s nothing at all they can do to avoid it.

 

 

Charles throws himself down onto the floor of the boat when the cannonball smashes into the top of the mast, the skiff jolting roughly even as it falls. He hears Raven cry out but the sound is covered up by a loud, earsplitting _crack_ , and he lifts his head just in time to watch as the boat breaks in two, stern falling away completely as Hank drags both Charles and Raven into the bow, one arm wrapped around the half of the mast that’s left for dear life.

Charles thinks he must scream as they rocket down towards the ground, their tattered sail doing little to slow their descent. They hit the top of the treeline, crashing through the strange, mushroom-like tops of the towering trees in a huge cloud of green spores, bouncing wildly off of shorter treetops and other tree trunks as the ground gets closer and closer, cutting a swath of wild destruction as they careen uncontrollably through the forest.

“Brace yourselves!” Raven shouts, and then the ground is _there_ , right in front of them, and the last thing Charles remembers is a huge, jarring crunch followed by another loud snap, the world tumbling head over heels around him as he’s thrown out of the ruins of the skiff completely, and then everything goes mercifully dark.

X

He’s not out for very long.

He wakes to someone gasping painfully, followed by ragged breathing and a murmuring voice that’s vaguely familiar. It takes him a few moments to make sense of his surroundings, vision spinning dizzily in a myriad of green and brown colors, before the world rights itself. He’s lying on his back at the base of one of the tall mushroom-trees, head cushioned by spongy grass. The smoking wreckage of the skiff is only a few yards away, out in the middle of a sunny clearing, the little flames smoldering fortunately not strongly enough to give off too much of a telling beacon of smoke.

Hank is nearby, and it’s his voice that Charles recognizes. He twists where he lies, rolling onto his side. The astrophysicist's back is to him, crouched beside Raven and checking her over with broad, steady hands. Raven lies still, eyes closed as she breathes, but Charles can tell she’s still awake by the way her hand clenches into a fist, the only other sign she gives of her pain.

Charles tests his limbs, afraid at first that something might be broken, but when no pain comes he risks sitting up, swallowing roughly with a dry throat. Hank whirls around at the small rustle of grass, jumpy, but relaxes as soon as he sees Charles.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” he says, relieved, “everything working?”

“Just a little bruised but otherwise fine,” Charles assures him, pushing himself only slightly shakily up to his feet to prove it, “what about you?”

“I’m fine,” Hank answers, but quickly turns back to Raven when she grips her ribs with a pained wince. “Captain Darkholme, however…”

“Please, how many times must I say,” Raven says, cracking an eye open and giving a small smile that’s closer to a grimace, “call me Raven, doctor.” She moves to push herself up into a sitting position and Hank moves to help her at once, gentle as he situates her with her back against the tree. She straightens her coat with quiet dignity, eyes still sharp despite her obvious discomfort. “Not one of my most gossamer landings, I’ll allow. Good to see you awake, Mr. Xavier. The map, if you please.”

“Right.” Charles digs into his jacket pocket, relieved when his fingers close around the sphere. With a small triumphant noise he pulls it out, only to have it suddenly float out of his hand and dissolve into Nightcrawler. “ _Nightcrawler_!”

The little Morph giggles wildly, supremely pleased with himself as he flies in circles around Charles, chittering happily.

“Where’s the real map?” Charles demands, a flutter of panic beating against the inside of his chest.

Nightcrawler morphs into a mini coil of rope and then drops a small sphere inside it in answer, and all at once things become very clear.

“It’s back on the ship?” Charles asks rhetorically, despair settling in and consuming the panic. If the map is still back on the ship, odds are the pirates have already found it. Nightcrawler coos, swirling around him and evading Charles’ half-hearted attempts to grab him.

“Stifle that blob,” Raven interrupts tersely as the sound of an engine approaches overhead, “and get low. I’d like to avoid having company.”

Charles cups Nightcrawler in both hands and looks up in time to watch another one of the ship’s skiffs soar past overhead above the treeline, heading for the far-off trail of smoke that rises up above the giant mushroom heads. He wonders what it could possibly be and then he remembers—the other half of their skiff must have crashed over there.

“If they’re bothering to look for us, that means they still think we have the map,” Charles realizes aloud, hope beginning to blossom again, “they don’t know that it’s right under their noses.”

“It also means that as soon as they find out we don’t have the map, we become very expendable,” Raven says grimly. She moves to rise, grabbing the phaser rifle that lies beside her and using it as a crutch to boost herself up while Hank hovers beside her anxiously. “We need to find a more defensible position. Mr. Xavier.” She pulls out the pistol, handing it to him by the barrel so that he can take it by the grip. “Scout ahead. Try to find somewhere we can lie low for as long as possible.”

Charles is quiet for a moment, weighing the pistol in his hand. He’s just as unfamiliar with the weapon as Hank is, but that doesn’t stop him from carefully tucking it into the beltloop of his trousers. “Aye, Captain.”

He starts off into the trees, not turning back even when he hears Raven give another pained gasp and Hank saying, gentle but firm, “Here, lie down again. Let me take a look at that.”

With Nightcrawler hovering at his shoulder, Charles picks his way carefully through the undergrowth. The landscape of the planet is exotic and foreign, all the lush green nearly overwhelming on his eyes compared to the dusty browns of Montressor that he’s more accustomed to. The forest grows dimmer the deeper in he ventures, sliding down what appears to be a large, twisted root and boots squishing across round, bulbous little plants as he walks. Nightcrawler hums as he darts around curiously, breaking up the almost eerie silence, and Charles is grateful that he never strays too far, always sticking close and within sight.

The trunks of the mushroom-trees grow gnarly and twisted, long, pale fibers trailing down from above that Charles does his best to avoid brushing against. The air seems thicker here, settling heavy in his lungs and he must have gotten too used to the lighter molecules of open space; it’s odd to have to readjust to breathing terrestrial air. Strange, alien plants grow everywhere, coming in all shapes and sizes, some of which Charles would have never imagined to be possible, let alone feasible. They seem to be the only form of life on the planet, as Charles can’t even hear the buzz of insects.

He’s carefully sidestepping a cluster of plants that look like vases, with curved and rounded bottoms that taper up to gaping mouths that must be used to collect rainwater when he hears a small rustle and instantly freezes. He shushes Nightcrawler when the Morph makes a questioning noise, slowly reaching down to grasp the grip of the pistol at his belt, drawing it carefully and clicking off the safety.

The noise sounds like it came from within one of the vase-like plants so Charles approaches slowly, nerves on edge. He has no idea what to expect on this planet, deeply out of his league and it hits him, suddenly, how exactly far he is away from home, crash-landed on a planet that for the longest time was believed to never actually exist, betrayed and trapped by pirates.

What’s a little rustling in the bushes compared to that, Charles thinks grimly to himself, and then leans over carefully to peer down into the closest plant.

Two glowing green eyes are abruptly inches from his own, a wide, grinning mouth opening wide and shrieking, “Aaahhh!”

“Aaahhh!” Charles echoes in shock, reeling back only to trip over a root and fall flat on his ass. Something jumps on top of him immediately, and long, spindly fingers pluck at his shirt.

“This is so diddly darn fab-tab-rab-sab-gab-lab-fantastic!” a giddy voice shouts, echoing through the trees around them. Charles feels himself lifted back up to his feet as if he weighs less than a feather, and suddenly he’s being pressed tightly against a cold metal chest. “An organic life form! You’ve finally come to rescue me! Oh, I just want to hug you and squeeze you and whisper sweet nothings in your ear—”

“Let go of me,” Charles says quickly, wriggling his way loose from skinny, wired arms and taking a step back so that he can get a better look at his new—acquaintance.

He’s an android, there’s no mistake about that. He has starting blond metal hair, and his mouth is in a permanent grin, giving him a manic look as he studies Charles in return. His eyes are more like sunglasses than actual eyes, but green blocks of light dance across the black lenses, proving that he’s very much activated and functioning. The rest of his body is painted in a garish mix of bright red and black, his body unit huge and buff while his arms and legs are twiggy in comparison, joint sockets exposed but obviously well-cared for as the strange robot dances a little jig on the spot.

“I’ve been marooned for a very long time,” he explains, bounding forward to wrap an arm around Charles’ shoulders. Charles stiffens, eyeing him warily, but the android truly doesn’t seem to mean any harm as he continues, “Which of course, solitude is all fine and dandy, but after a hundred years or so you just—” he whirls suddenly, gripping Charles with both hands and giving him a shake, “—go a little NUTS!”

Trying not to feel like his own brain has just been addled, Charles brushes the robot off of himself again, relieved when he’s willingly let go. “Who _are_ you?” he asks cautiously, once he’s put a small amount of distance between them again. He has a distinct feeling that it isn’t going to last.

“Oh, right.” He strikes a pose, chest puffed out and hands on his hips. “My name is—what’s my name again?”

Charles stares at him. He’s beginning to suspect that perhaps he was too liberal in using the word _functioning_. On his shoulder, Nightcrawler morphs into a smaller version of the android and pops open the top of his head, a little cuckoo bird shooting out back and forth. “ _Cuckoo, cuckoo_.”

Trying not to laugh, Charles bats at him gently, getting him to return to his blob form. He’s not far off the mark, though. The longer the android spends trying to recall his own name doesn’t exactly make it hard to imagine that he’s missing a few bolts.

“Of course!” The android snaps his fingers, and then to Charles’ alarm he reaches back over his shoulders and whips out two long, gleaming swords from the sheaths strapped to his back and brandishes them wildly. “My name is W.A.D.E.! It’s short for Wireless Animatronic Delineation Equipment!”

Charles exchanges a look with Nightcrawler, carefully taking a step or two back. “Wade, then. What’s with the, um, swords?”

Even Wade seems perplexed. “You know, I have _no_ idea.” He stares at the blades in his hands as if seeing them for the very first time. “I bet I could make a mean salad with these.”

“Right,” Charles says, wondering what that has to do with anything, “well, listen, maybe you can help me with something.”

“Help!” Wade shouts, spinning around. On the back of his head, a small panel is missing and a few loose wires stick out at odd angles, which probably explains a lot. “SOS! Assistance! I can do that!”

“Excellent,” Charles says, forced to take another hasty step back when the android’s spinning causes the blades to flash inches from his face. “I’m looking for something. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

“Oh, have you lost your mind as well?” Wade asks excitedly, coming to a stop. He slips the blades back over his shoulders, sheathing them, to Charles’ relief, with a soft scrape. “I’ve always wondered if minds flock together when they’re lost. Maybe they’re nesting!”

“Uh, no, I haven’t,” Charles replies, even though it’s starting to feel as if he might’ve just by proximity. “I’m looking for treasure.”

“Treasure?” Wade’s eyes light up with green. “Like pirate treasure?”

Charles perks up. “Yes?”

“Like secret, hidden, pirate treasure?” Wade goes on, practically rattling as he vibrates with energy on the spot. “Secret, hidden, pirate treasure that—oh, it’s right on the tip of my tongue—”

“Yes,” Charles says, hope buoying up in his chest, and Nightcrawler even helpfully morphs into a tiny wooden chest with gleaming pieces of gold spilling out, “go on, go on—”

 

 

“T-treasure,” Wade stutters, eyes glowing brighter, “treasure treasure treasure treasure treasure—”

He erupts with a bright spark, a loud snap and the sizzle of something frying echoing through the trees. When Charles lowers the arm he’d thrown up to protect his face, he sees a thin trail of smoke rising out of the back of the android’s head.

“Nope, never heard of it,” Wade says dazedly, holding up one spindly finger. “Do you think minds can be coaxed back with offerings of balloon animals in the shape of giraffes?”

“Wait, you just said,” Charles protests, “you were _just_ talking about pirate treasure.”

“Was I?” Wade wonders. “You know, I’ve always been really suspicious about clouds. What are they doing up there, anyway? They look like they’re up to no good. Do you hear me, clouds?! I see you!”

Charles sighs, recognizing a lost cause when he sees one. Clearly those broken wires are indicative of a much larger problem than just the occasional twitch. “Never mind,” he says, giving Nightcrawler a small nudge, “but thanks anyway.”

“Wait!” Wade says when Charles and Nightcrawler turn away to keep walking through the forest. “Where are you going? Take me with you! Please, please, please take me with you!”

“Hey!” Charles says indignantly when Wade throws himself to the ground, latching onto one of Charles’ legs. “Let go of me. Now.”

“I’ve been alone for so long,” Wade says, looking up at him with puppydog eyes. Charles isn’t sure how he manages it with the green lights, but he does. “And finally I have a friend again! You can’t go now!”

“Well I have to,” Charles says firmly, trying to pry his leg free. “One of my friends is hurt, and I need to find shelter for us.”

Too late, he realizes what he’s said. “More friends!” Wade shouts, rocketing up to his feet and grabbing Charles by the hands. He spins them in a fast circle, the forest turning into a green blur around them. “You brought more friends, oh happy day! We can swap fun anecdotes about our childhoods and have a sleepover and cook pancakes in the morning!”

“We’re being chased by pirates, Wade,” Charles says as he tears himself loose, patience wearing thin, “and I need to find a safe place to hide before they find us and do the exact opposite of swapping fun anecdotes about our childhoods and having a sleepover and cooking pancakes in the morning to us.”

“Does that mean they’re good at making tacos?” Wade asks tentatively.

“ _No_.”

“I can help, I can help!” Wade says quickly when Charles starts walking away again. “I promise I can help. I’ll be quiet too, I’m very good at being quiet. I can be so quiet that you won’t even remember I’m here. I can be silent as a—”

“Wade,” Charles says pointedly, looking back at him over his shoulder.

The android mimes zipping his lips closed, and somehow manages to convey looking contrite.

Charles sighs. Wade is probably an annoying headache that he doesn’t need, but he’s already starting to feel bad at the thought of telling him to get lost. Maybe he’s right, though, and maybe he can help, if he’s been stuck on this planet for as long as he claims. At any rate he’ll have a better grasp of the land than Charles does.

Still, Charles is smarting painfully from the last time he’d decided to trust someone unknown. He grits his teeth, ignoring the sharp jab his heart gives at the mere thought of Erik. Angrily, he pushes the thoughts away, refusing to dwell on him. He has far more important things to worry about right now than a lying traitor.

Somehow branding Erik with any number of derogatory terms still doesn’t make him feel any better.

Some of the residual hurt must show on his face, because Wade approaches him solemnly and takes one of Charles’ hands with both of his own. “Would you like me to sing you a song of the majestic, proud, and hairless three-balled goat?”

“What,” Charles says, yanking his hand out of the android’s grip, “ _no_.”

“He is an inspiration to us all,” Wade says gravely, but then he brightens. “So I can come with you, right?”

Charles exchanges glances with Nightcrawler. “Fine, you can come,” he says, but holds up a hand when Wade lets out a loud whoop, “but you have to be _quiet_. And no more three-balled goats, or whatever that was.”

“Gone but never forgotten in our hearts,” Wade swears, and Charles wonders just how long it’s going to take him to convince Raven that the robot isn’t a serious threat to their survival just by being himself.

“Come on, then,” Charles says wearily, starting off through the undergrowth again and deciding to save that particular headache for later. “I need to find that shelter.”

“Wait, wait, before we go,” Wade says, scurrying across the clearing and pulling back a large frond, “we must first stop by my home. Only for a moment! I just really, really…” He trails off, lights blinking sheepishly. “Gotta take a leak.”

Charles gazes out across the open meadow, the beginnings of a relieved smile forming on his face as he studies the old, rusted metal ship hull that sits on top of a small hill. “Wade,” he says slowly, as Nightcrawler does a happy little loop in the air, “I think you just ended our search.”

X

It takes a considerable less amount of time than Charles imagined to convince Raven that Wade is trustworthy enough to follow, though it’s mostly on the account that their fearless captain is near delirious with pain, listening silently to Charles’ introduction and explanation with glazed yellow eyes before giving a single nod in acquiesce. Looking grim but resolute, Hank nods too.

It takes an infinite amount of time longer to reach Wade’s abode. Charles hadn’t wandered far from the site of their crash-landing in his short search for shelter, but moving Raven even that amount of distance proves to be a difficult challenge. He and Hank have to support her between them, their pace slow and halting as they try their best to jostle her the least amount of times as possible. The captain isn’t very heavy but the positioning is awkward, especially for Charles, who turns out to be shorter than both of them. They have to take frequent stops to allow Raven to catch her breath when the pain in her side gets to be too much.

Charles is constantly on edge, listening intently over Wade’s occasional bursts of inane chatter for the sound of pirates crashing through the undergrowth behind them in pursuit. They’ve heard the low drone of the skiff’s thrusters a few times, always far off in the distance but making them pause every time, listening with baited breath for the sound to draw closer. It never does, always fading away as the pirates conduct a slow, sweeping search for them from the air, but Charles finds he breathes easiest when they can’t hear the skiff at all.

He’s not fooling himself. He knows that they’ll be found eventually, that the pirates are just as much aware of the fact that they won’t be able to make it far as they are. Wade’s home sticks out like an eyesore, so it’s only a matter of time before one of the pirates catches sight of it once their sweeps grow closer, but Charles will feel better being inside the hollowed-out ship, cornered with their backs against the wall instead of caught out in the open.

He wonders if Erik is taking part in the search or if the cyborg waits high above on the ship for Charles, Raven, and Hank to be captured and dragged back up to him. Charles dreads having to face him again, though not out of fear—it’s more out of shame, and the fact that he let Erik get so close to him, believing that whatever they had between them was real and perhaps hinted at something more than just brief companionship during the voyage and—

It hurts to remember the way Erik held him after sex, warm and tangled together in his small but comfortable bed. It hurts to know that all of it was only an act.

They reach Wade’s place at last, struggling up the steep, rocky hill with Raven before they’re finally stepping inside, the cool shade a relief after the hot climb. Once Charles’ eyes adjust to the gloom he can see there isn’t much to the hollowed-out hull, just a small pile of moss-covered rocks near the center and another pile of what can only be described as junk near the back of the shallow cave, all kinds of strange odds and ends ranging from engine parts to an old rickety table that has a chess set with a game in progress before Wade knocks into the table and scatters the pieces everywhere.

The android ducks behind an old, tattered and fraying sheet that hangs up on a clothesline anchored into the walls, disappearing into what must serve as his bedroom. Charles helps Hank lower Raven down to the ground, leaning her back against the smoothest rock they can find so that she can sit up, blinking blearily.

“Drinks?” Wade offers cheerily, dancing back out from behind his curtain with a rusty metal tray. Hank visibly recoils from what looks like bubbling motor oil, black as tar, that half spills out of the chipped mugs with every step Wade takes, leaking all over the tray. Charles thinks he sees a wrench sticking out of one of them. “No? Well just let me know. It’s been so long since I’ve had guests. Oh! How about I play you an original composition on my bagpipes?”

“That’s quite alright,” Hank says, throwing Charles a bemused look before shrugging off his coat and folding it up to stick beneath Raven’s back.

“Tough crowd,” Wade remarks, undaunted. “If original works aren’t up your alley, I can also play a very soulful rendition of what I like to call—” his voice suddenly becomes extraordinarily deep, echoing off the walls ominously, “— _Play That Funky Music, White Boy_.”

“Wade,” Charles says slowly once the echoes have faded, “no bagpipes. Please.”

“How about some quiet time,” Hank suggests, and Raven rouses herself.

“Gentlemen, we must stick together,” she says, trying to sit up fully before Hank stops her with gentle hands.

“Stop giving orders for one millisecond,” he says firmly, but not without fondness as he makes her recline back against the rock again, moving his jacket up to pillow her head. “You need to take it easy and rest.”

Raven smiles up at him and Charles has to look away, trying and failing not to think of how Erik had comforted him just last night. But no. All of that had been a lie. He’s suddenly back to being furious with himself for actually believing a single word that came out of Erik’s mouth. He’s angry that Erik took things so far to begin with, all only to deceive him, and, he thinks bitterly, he’d lapped it up with a spoon. It’s humiliating.

“Are you alright, Charles?” Hank asks him, perhaps seeing something in Charles’ posture or expression. “How’s your head feeling?”

“It’s fine,” Charles says quickly, pushing all thoughts of Erik away. And this isn’t a lie, at least. It’s not his head that hurts.

“Good,” Hank says absently, his gaze returning to Raven, who dozes fitfully.

“Hey, you guys didn’t tell me that you brought more friends!” Wade says excitedly, and Charles’ head jerks up. The android stands in the mouth of the ship’s entrance, waving his arms around. “Hey! Yoohoo! Over here!”

“No, Wade, those are the pirates!” Charles shouts when several blasts of plasma guns go off. The android windmills his arms wildly as he avoids the blasts before falling backwards back into the ship hull but Charles pushes past him, fumbling with the pistol still tucked through the belt loop of his trousers. He crouches down below the ledge at the entrance to the ship and returns fire as best as he can, shooting bursts of plasma off wildly without really looking, his heart racing—he doesn’t actually want to kill anyone, he just doesn’t want to _be_ killed.

When he risks a peek over the edge, he catches a quick glimpse of a horde of pirates sprinting across the meadow towards the hill, yelling and brandishing their guns. He has to duck back down again quickly when a bolt of plasma nearly hits him right in the face.

“There’s too many!” he calls to Hank and Raven, a little panicked. There are at least ten men out there, and there’s only one of him. He’ll never be able to hold them off, not even if Hank lets Raven up, who’s been roused by the sound of the fight and is struggling and protesting weakly to be allowed to join the fray.

“They have a funny way of saying hello,” Wade remarks, miffed, “I like you guys much better.”

Charles risks shooting a couple more shots blindly, and he knows he doesn’t have a chance at actually hitting anyone but he holds onto the foolish hope that maybe they’ll back down before someone is hurt or killed. It isn’t his wild shooting, however, that makes the pirates stop, but instead a cold, clear voice rings out across the meadow, one that Charles recognizes at last from the night the Marko Inn was burnt down and would now know anywhere, and stops the pirates in their tracks.

“Hold your fire,” Erik orders, voice sounding from the base of the rocks that make up the hill. The plasma shots stop instantly, an abrupt silence falling. “Spread out and wait here.” Charles has half a moment to wonder what he means by that before he hears a scrape of boots against the rock and Erik’s voice comes again, this time considerably closer and no longer a terse shout. “Charles, it’s just me. I’d like a word.”

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> View a masterpost of all the art from Chapters 4-7 [here](http://pangeasplits.tumblr.com/post/95596251129/garnetquyen-to-rattle-the-stars-art)!

 

X

 

Charles freezes, staying where he’s crouched down low and out of sight. He still has no desire to face Erik, but this may be his only chance to speak with him before the pirates renew their attack and kill them all.

“Come to bargain for the map, I’m sure,” Raven grits out, baring her teeth angrily.

“Of course,” Charles realizes, keeping his voice down, “they still think we have it. They still haven’t figured out that it’s back on the ship yet.”

“Well we certainly can’t tell them that,” Hank points out dryly. “They’ll kill us even faster than they already plan to.”

His mind made up, Charles pushes himself back up to his feet, squaring his shoulders and tucking his pistol back into his belt loop. “I’m going to see what he has to say.” He’s proud that the words come out steady and even, giving no indications of the swirl of emotions he has in his gut.

“Wait,” Hank says, frowning worriedly, “how do you know all he wants to do is talk? What if he pulls something? Can we trust him?”

“Not at all,” Charles says flatly, swinging one leg over the ledge to climb out of the ship, “but it’s not like we have much of a choice.”

“I’ll come with you!” Wade offers, bouncing over like a particularly creaky puppy.

“No, stay here,” Charles says quickly, casting about for a good enough reason so that no one can protest, “guard the entrance and make sure none of the other pirates try to sneak up. Nightcrawler’s got my back.” The little Morph puffs out his chest importantly.

“Aye, aye, Captain!” Wade salutes. “I’ll hold down the fort! No one will get past these eagle eyes! Not even a—hey, that cloud is shaped like a walrus playing a harmonica!”

Before he gives himself too much time to think, Charles climbs the rest of the way out of the ship, dropping down onto the rock below with Nightcrawler hovering at his shoulder. He clambers carefully down the pile, making his way to the halfway point where Erik stands alone on a wide, flat rock that seems a good enough place for a neutral ground. He watches Charles approach silently, his face expressionless and sharp gaze unblinking. Charles arranges his own expression into something that he hopes matches, but he clenches one fist down at his side as he comes to a stop in front of the cyborg, keeping a few feet of distance between them.

With a happy chirp, Nightcrawler zooms forward to greet Erik, doing two excited loops around him before nuzzling against his cheek and purring when Erik lifts an absent hand to scratch gently beneath his chin.

Erik’s gaze remains focused wholly on Charles, looking him slowly up and down, eyes traveling over what feels like every last inch of his body as if cataloguing him and checking for any signs of injury and the pure _farce_ of this almost makes Charles laugh, humorless and bitter, before he gives in and breaks the silence.

“So was everything a lie, then?” he asks, staring hard at Erik. He’s mad enough to punch him, if he wasn’t aware that Erik could probably stop him easily.

“Not everything,” Erik returns swiftly, seemingly satisfied with the results of his scrutiny and his eyes flicker back up to Charles’ face.

“Yeah,” Charles says, shaking his head in disbelief, “right.”

“You overheard everything in the mess hall,” Erik observes, his voice quiet. “Anything I said regarding you wasn’t true.”

“Oh, and I’m just supposed to believe that, am I?” Charles folds his arms tightly, if only to hide the way his hands shake. “After you _lied to me_ for the entirety of the time that I’ve known you.”

“I’ll admit, I only lied to you at first to throw you off my trail,” Erik says, calm in the face of Charles’ accusation, “I hadn’t been counting on you recognizing my voice from the inn, but—”

“Yes, my stepfather’s inn, which you and your men burned to the ground,” Charles snaps, rage flaring up again. “You nearly _killed_ us that night. You nearly killed us _today_. You’re probably planning on killing us before the night is out!”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Erik says, cold anger of his own creeping into his voice.

“Oh, lovely, have your men do all your dirty work for you. How convenient.”

“Damn it, Charles,” Erik snaps, frustrated, “just let me finish.”

“By all means,” Charles says mockingly, dripping with contempt, “do go on.”

Nightcrawler drifts out to hover off to one side of them, looking back and forth between them, nervous and worried.

 

 

“My feelings for you are real and true,” Erik says, and in any other situation the tight and terse tone of voice he uses to say the words would be comical. “What I said in the mess hall to Cain was to prevent him from finding out the true nature of our relationship and spreading it to the rest of the crew, because I guarantee you they would have hosted a mutiny of their own and gutted us both.”

“I don’t believe you,” Charles says flatly.

Erik lets out a huff of breath, suddenly looking exhausted. “Fine, then don’t,” he says icily, “but just know that I wouldn’t have slept with you at all if my feelings weren’t real.”

Charles flushes hot at the words, so angry that at first he can’t even speak. “What, am I supposed to trip and fall back into your arms now?” he bites out once he recovers enough. “Take your word that you’re truly that noble, when everything else about you, every single action you’ve taken, points in the exact opposite direction of anything _remotely_ noble, let alone _truthful_?” His voice wavers slightly at the end, threatening to crack. Erik has touched the largest sore spot Charles harbors, bringing up the sex they’d had. “You’re so full of shit.”

“I’ve said all I have to say about the matter,” Erik says flatly, and then his voice hardens. “Hand over the map.”

“No,” Charles says, calm settling down over his anger like a cold spray of rain on a fire, “I won’t.”

“Listen,” Erik says intently, taking a step or two towards him. Charles is viciously pleased to see that his footsteps are halting, his robotic leg no doubt still damaged from the knife he’d plunged into it. “You and I can still walk away from this together. You bring the map and I’ll commandeer the skiff.” He holds out a hand. “Come with me.”

“What makes you think I want to go anywhere with you,” Charles says, not even looking down once at Erik’s offered hand. “You betrayed me. What’s to stop you from doing it again?”

“What’s it going to take to convince you that I’m not lying,” Erik says stiffly, withdrawing his hand, “at least not about you and me.”

 _Nothing can convince me_ , Charles almost says, the words hovering just on the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t release them. “Actions speak louder than words,” he says instead, voice flat again, and not entirely sure why he didn’t voice his original response. “But I’m not giving you the map. Not by choice.”

Erik scowls, expression growing dark and thunderous. “I’ll take it by force if I have to,” he warns, eyes searing into Charles’ with heavy promise, “so think carefully on if you really want it to come to that. I’ll give you till dawn to decide.” His eyes flick up towards Wade’s ship before returning back to Charles’ face. “I’ll make sure you live. But I can’t promise the same for your friends.” He turns around, limping carefully back down the hill. “Come on, Nightcrawler.”

Nightcrawler hesitates, hanging back and looking after Erik with huge, puppydog eyes. Charles doesn’t budge, eyes narrowed on the back of Erik’s head, and it’s a moment before Erik realizes that Nightcrawler isn’t following him.

“Nightcrawler,” he snaps, stopping and throwing a glance back at the little Morph, “let’s _go_.”

Nightcrawler squeaks and ducks behind Charles shoulder, peering at Erik fearfully. Charles doesn’t even have it in him to be satisfied by the small victory and just glares at Erik, daring him to do anything about it.

For a moment Erik’s anger burns hot and bright in his eyes, sparking up like a solar flare, but in the next it vanishes, vanquishing like a collapsed star. “Fine,” he says, and then walks away. This time he doesn’t stop or turn back.

Charles waits just long enough to be sure that Erik is well out of earshot and gone from view before bringing the back of one hand up to his mouth to muffle a choked-off sob, squeezing his eyes shut to prevent any of the damp wetness that has suddenly formed in their corners from leaking out. He holds himself completely still for a moment, trembling with the effort of not allowing any more sound to escape, and Nightcrawler makes a small, sad noise, nudging him tentatively.

“I’m okay,” Charles whispers, letting out his breath in one loud, shaky whoosh and running both his hands through his hair. His chest feels hollowed out and empty, all his anger burnt out now that he’s said what he wanted to say to Erik, leaving only weariness behind. “I’m okay,” he repeats a little louder, offering Nightcrawler a small, weary smile that feels a little stiff and at odds on his face, “come on.”

He climbs back up the way he’d come, half-expecting to receive a blast of plasma to the back but no further shots are fired, and Charles makes it all the way up to the entrance of the rusted ship unmolested. It appears Erik really does intend to keep his word.

Which they can only take with a grain of salt, Charles thinks grimly as he turns back around to watch as the pirates slink back off into the trees. There’s no doubt in his mind that they’re not going far, and any attempts of escape will be brought to a short and violent stop. They’re trapped here, and the pirates probably aren’t going to wait all the way till dawn to come and take the map.

Except they don’t even _have_ the map.

“Charles?” comes Hank’s voice from inside, greatly relieved to see him again. “How did it go?”

“What did he have to say for himself?” Raven adds, her voice weak but no less scornful for it.

Charles steels himself, composing his expression into something that’s hopefully calm, and then hops back down into the ship. If they want to have any chance of surviving this, they need to come up with a plan and it’s going to take all three of them to come up with something.

He hopes that Raven and Hank will be more useful than he is, because right now he can’t seem to get the image of Erik holding out a hand to him out of his mind.

X

Afternoon fades slowly into evening in a long drag of anxiety and frustration. The anxiety is mostly on Hank’s part, who frets over Raven as she slips in and out of dozing, continuing to grow weaker and weaker. The frustration is on Charles’ part, because he’s come to loathe the feeling of sitting trapped and useless while their time runs out, unable to come up with a single plausible plan that could save them.

He doesn’t word this aloud, but more and more it’s starting to feel like everything is his fault. He never should’ve trusted Erik. He should’ve stuck to his original gut feeling and wariness, and then maybe he would’ve seen all this coming sooner. The thought is enough to make him feel just as frustrated with himself as he is with their predicament.

“Damn it, Charles, I’m an astrophysicist, not a doctor,” Hank finally snaps when his anxiety reaches an all-time high, nerves completely shot, “I mean, I _am_ a doctor, yes, but I’m not _that_ kind of doctor. I have a doctorate, and it’s not the same thing. You can’t help people with a doctorate, you just sit there and you’re _useless_.”

“Hey,” Charles says, pausing in his restless pacing and walking over to put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’re not useless. You’re doing a great job of taking care of Raven, the best you can given we have no supplies.”

Hank sighs. He hasn’t moved from the captain’s side, even when Charles offered to take his place for a bit so he could stretch his legs a little. “Thanks, I just—” he breaks off and laughs humorlessly. “They’re going to kill us when they find out we don’t actually have the map.”

“They’d kill us just to take it from us if we actually did,” Charles reminds him grimly. It’s not a cheering thought at all. Frantically, in between half-hearted discussions of possible plans, he’s been silently racking his brains on how to convince Erik not to kill Hank and Raven either, if the cyborg really meant what he said about letting Charles live.

So far this has only ended in Charles giving up the line of thought in disgust, because it’s not like he can trust Erik’s word on that either. Charles’ fate is going to be the exact same as Hank and Raven’s.

“I just wish we had a way to reach the medkit back on the ship,” Hank says gloomily. “That way at least I could bandage Raven properly, and give her something to take the edge off the pain.”

Charles walks back over to the entrance of the ship, leaning against the ledge and looking out, Nightcrawler hovering beside him. Night has fallen, the meadow and forest dark around them save for the small, flickering light where the pirates have started a fire and set up a campsite on the edge of the trees to guard them. High overhead, the Klirodótima hangs above them all in the sky, a silent giant looming over them all, so close yet so far away.

If only they had the map. Bargaining with the pirates to at least be spared would go so much easier if they actually had the one thing they could possibly offer.

“I’m sure Charles has a plan!” Wade says confidently, emerging out from his piles of junk where he’s been rattling about most of the day, after Charles banished him to the back corner in order to be able to actually think straight. His continuous offers of various bagpipe tunes had gotten to be a little too much after the first half hour. He strides over to stand next to Charles and leans in, whispering, “So, Charles, any thoughts? Any thoughts at all?”

“Without the map, we’re dead,” Charles says heavily, tearing his gaze away from the ship, “and if we try to escape, we’re dead.” He can’t see entirely through the darkness, but no doubt at least one of the pirates is lurking somewhere close, keeping an eye on the hill to make sure no one tries to sneak away. “But if we stay here—”

“ _We’re dead!_ ” Nightcrawler squeaks, shouting out the answer excitedly like a little kid. “ _We’re dead, we’re dead, we’re dead!_ ”

“I’m catching some major negative vibes over here!” Wade exclaims when Charles sighs. He puts his hands on his hips, rocking them back and forth with a soft grind of metal. “See, look what it’s doing to me, it’s making me all rusty. I think I’m just going to slip out the back door for some fresh air.”

“Back door?” Charles asks, perking up at once. “You never mentioned this place has a back door.”

“You didn’t want to go on the grand tour when I offered earlier!” Wade says, dancing over to a large domed object sitting on the ground that Charles had assumed was just another piece of scrap metal. “There were musical numbers to go along with each stop!”

He leans heavily on the dome, and Charles realizes it’s not a dome at all—it’s a huge sphere set into the ground that rotates around under Wade’s weight, realigning so that a large, circular opening lies on top, a bright light streaming out. Charles pulls himself up to peer down into the hole, and gasps in wonder. The revealed passageway extends down into the planet for what must be miles and miles, further than Charles can even see, a wild mess of gangways, stairs, and complex piping that hums faintly as they conduct their work, fully functioning and alive.

“Whoa,” he says, while Nightcrawler morphs into a small megaphone and shouts down into the void, his little voice echoing loudly, “what _is_ all this?”

“You mean the miles and miles of machinery that run through the entire course of the inside of this planet?” Wade asks, lounging upside-down on the edge of the opening, his head hanging down into the passageway. “Not a clue!”

“Of course not,” Charles mutters, and then climbs up onto the doorway, straddling the hole in preparation to jump. A warm updraft of air blows up from below, ruffling his hair. “Listen, Hank, I think we’ve finally got a way out of here,” he calls over to the astrophysicist, “just let me go and take a look first before we try moving the captain.”

Hank looks up, eyes widening in alarm when he sees what Charles is standing on. “We’re supposed to stick together, I don’t think she wanted us to split—”

“I’ll be back before dawn,” Charles promises, and then jumps up and closes his legs so that he plunges downwards feet-first in a rush of air, Nightcrawler streaking along beside him.

“CANNONBALL!” Wade whoops, leaping after him, and his denser, heavier frame causes him to hurtle past Charles, landing with a loud crash on the catwalk below, sprawled out and cackling madly.

Charles lands on his feet, dropping into a crouch to keep from smashing his face down against the metal grate. The catwalk sways back and forth for a moment, disturbed by its two new occupants, but by the time Wade has picked himself back up and Charles has straightened, it’s fallen mostly still again.

It’s warm down here, and the clank of machinery is significantly louder. Charles imagines that it would be all too easy to get lost down here in this industrial maze, and under any other circumstances he’d be calling back up to Hank for the astrophysicist to join them because this is no ordinary planet at all, if its insides look like this instead of being filled with molten magma. The scientist would have a field day.

He has to shout a little to be heard over the noise. “Wade! Are there any other entrances or exits besides the one we just came through?”

“Well sure!” Wade says cheerily, beckoning to him. “There’s one nearby, I’ll show you!”

Charles and Nightcrawler follow the android along the catwalk, carefully avoiding looking down. Charles wonders if the piping reaches all the way down to the planet’s core, and what the core even looks like. Could Flint’s treasure be hidden somewhere down here, squirreled away into a pipe disguised to look like all the rest? Surely the pipe would have to be enormous, if all the tales regarding the size of Flint’s trove are true. Charles eyes the double set of two pipes that he and Wade have to duck under in order to keep going on their path, both of which are twice as tall as he is. Either way, finding the treasure isn’t what he’s come down here for, and only the map will truly be able to point him in the right direction.

“Ta-da!” Wade strikes a pose next to a ladder that it little more than a set of iron rungs welded to the wall leading upwards. “Here we are!”

“Where does this one come out at?” Charles asks, craning his neck back to look up at the covered hole high above them. Nightcrawler flies up to survey it, circling beneath it once, before he shoots back down to Charles and shrugs.

“Somewhere in the forest,” Wade says vaguely with a shrug.

Determined, Charles grabs onto the lowest rung and starts to climb. If the entrance is far enough away from the meadow, he, Hank, and Raven can use it as a chance to slip away undetected and give themselves more time to come up with a real escape plan. He hears Wade start climbing behind him, metal feet clanking loudly, but Charles keeps his gaze forward, reaching up to push open the cover on the hole once he reaches the top of the ladder and peering cautiously out.

He nearly drops the lid back down in surprise when he finds himself nearly in the middle of the pirate’s camp, automatically flinching in recoil and expecting a shout to go up immediately. But the campsite is silent, most of the pirates curled up and snoring around a softly crackling fire, unaware that Charles has just popped up in their midst.

“So what’s the plan?” Wade asks loudly, popping up beside him, and Charles slams a hand over his mouth.

“ _Shh_ ,” he hisses, “be quiet before you get us killed.”

One of the nearest pirates snorts in his sleep, rolling over onto his side. Charles remains tense and frozen in place, watching him warily, until he’s certain that the man isn’t about to wake up and sound the alarm.

“Okay, here it is,” he whispers, thinking fast and turning back to Wade. He keeps his hand over Wade’s mouth to forestall any interruptions and to make sure that Wade is listening with his complete undivided attention. “We sneak up to the Klirodótima. We disable all her laser cannons. We bring back the map. And then we use this passageway to get away and hide from the pirates until they’re gone.”

“That’s a good plan, that’s a good plan,” Wade agrees fervently, his voice muffled, “I like it. I want to make sweet love to it under a glowing savannah moon while hyenas bray in the distance. But how do we get up there?”

Charles grins, a thrill of adrenaline coursing through him as he jerks his chin up, indicating for Wade to look. “On that.”

Anchored to the ground and hovering serenely above the campsite is the pirates’ skiff they’d used to conduct their search of the planet, still fully operational and not currently scattered in pieces like the one Charles, Hank, and Raven had arrived in. If he and Wade can manage to get it untied and sail it back up to the Klirodótima, sneak aboard, grab the map, and return the skiff with the pirates none the wiser, they can be miles away from the hill in the meadow by dawn, long before the pirates even realize that something is amiss. Or better yet, they can _keep_ the skiff and leave the pirates stranded.

One thing at a time, Charles reminds himself as he, Nightcrawler, and Wade carefully climb up out of the hole and lower the cover, which on the surface looks like a moss-covered rock, back down without making a sound. They creep around the edge of the campsite, stepping over the sprawled limbs of various snoring pirates until they’re near the old stump that the skiff has been moored to. Charles can’t help but notice that not all the pirates from earlier are present—Erik is nowhere to be seen.

Maybe it’s his turn to be on watch, and he’s out somewhere in the dark, staring up at the old ship hull where he thinks Charles still is, waiting for dawn. Charles convinces himself that this is the case, because the alternative means that Erik is still back here at the campsite and is watching as Charles and Wade pull the skiff down low enough to hoist themselves inside, and is going to wake his crew at any second to stop them.

But nothing happens, the forest remaining silent around them and the pirates continuing to snore, blissfully unaware that Charles is untying their skiff from its anchor line and the little boat is drifting upwards now through the trees, rising higher and higher into the air. Still wary about breaking the silence in case their voices travel back down below, Charles motions for Wade to sit down and stay still while he works at raising the sail before he settles down in the stern to work the tiller. They can’t risk firing up the thrusters unless the really do want to wake the pirates up, so they’re going to have to do this the good old fashioned way.

The solar sail gleams dimly in the moonlight, but the light breezes catches them as they finally rise up past the treeline, filling the sail and giving Charles enough power to work with. He lets out a soft laugh, exchanging a grin with Nightcrawler—they did it. He feels giddy and light as he directs the skiff up towards the Klirodótima, making a wide circle in the clear night air to approach the ship from behind her stern. It feels good to be doing _something_ , even if it’s reckless, and taking action instead of sitting and waiting for the pirates to come at dawn.

The Klirodótima is silent, but a few of the lanterns on the deck are lit, flickering quietly in the breeze, so Charles knows that some of the crew must still be onboard. He carefully guides the skiff up alongside the starboard side of the ship, pulling her sail down so that they glide to a halt up against the ship’s hull, low enough as to where they’re not visible to anyone who happens to be standing on the deck. He digs around beneath the benches and comes up with a rope, handing one end off to Nightcrawler. Nightcrawler gleefully snatches it and flies up to loop it twice around the Klirodótima’s railing, zooming back down to drop the line proudly in Charles’ hand. He ties it off quickly on one of the skiff’s cleats, tethering the skiff to the ship.

“Keep _quiet_ ,” he warns Wade, and then begins the short climb up to the ship’s deck, pulling himself carefully up over the railing with the android and Nightcrawler not far behind him.

Their luck continues to hold, and the deck appears to be empty, with no sign of any pirates. They have no way to tell how many of the crew have been left on board but at least, Charles thinks grimly, they’re not keeping a very tight watch—they have no need to, not with the impression that Charles, Hank, and Raven are grounded. He beckons to Wade and together they creep back towards the stern and down the stairs belowdecks into the innards of the ship to head for the engine room.

“Okay, listen,” Charles whispers when they reach the foot of the stairs, turning around to meet Wade’s gaze that glows green in the dim light, “somewhere around here there’s a huge power grid board with all the ship’s components plugged into it.” Erik had shown it to him once, and then after disabling the thrusters, he’d made Charles climb down into them and scrape the grimy buildup of plasma residue out from each of them. Charles had smelled like burnt plasma for three days. “I need you to find it, and unplug the plasma cannons, and make it so they can’t be plugged in again. Can you handle that? I’m going to go get the map.”

Wade leans in close and says, “Don’t worry, Private Ryan, I’m here to bring you home.” Then he lopes off through the machinery, doing a backflip around a corner and disappearing from view.

Charles looks at Nightcrawler, who shrugs. Together they head in the opposite direction, moving forward through the bowels of the ship, towards where the holding bay for the skiffs is located. Every single one of his nerves is on high alert, on edge and listening intently for any sound of footsteps or voices. It’s almost making him more nervous, to have not at least glimpsed anyone, because then at least he’d know where they are.

He makes it to the holding bay without incident, and it’s starting to feel too easy with how smoothly things are going. Quickly, Charles darts down the walkway that he and Erik had had their little showdown over Nightcrawler on and finds the tall coil of rope still tucked beside a barrel. Holding his breath, he reaches down into the hole and sighs aloud in relief when his fingers close around the cool, smooth sphere of the map.

Nightcrawler highfives him as he straightens and tucks the map safely away into his jacket, and that’s when the lights flicker out, plunging them into pitch black darkness.

Charles is suddenly plagued by the mental image of Wade at the power grid, pulling out plugs at random and hoping for the best and stifles a groan—just when he was starting to think that things were going to go smoothly the whole way, too.

Fortunately the lights blink back on again after a few moments, and Charles lets out another soft breath of relief. All he has to do now is make it back aft towards the stern, find Wade, make sure the cannons really have been disabled, and then they can hop back over the side of the ship onto their skiff to make their escape. Easy.

He turns around and freezes at the sight of Cain standing in the doorway to the hanger, meaty arms folded across his chest. Nightcrawler gives a trill of alarm, ducking behind Charles.

“Hello Charlie,” Cain says with a smirk.

“You,” Charles breathes, narrowing his eyes. In all the rush of fleeing for their lives and focusing so much on Erik’s betrayal he’d completely forgotten about the matter of his stepbrother. “ _You_ killed Mr. Azazel.”

“Aye,” Cain says, jutting out his chin with a laugh, “it was easy, too. A nice touch, too, I thought, of blaming it on you. Lehnsherr must’ve spoiled my fun if you know, though.”

“You helped burn down Kurt’s inn,” Charles continues, slowly edging forward across the walkway towards his stepbrother and the door. “Your _father’s_ inn. How could you _do_ that?”

“Easy,” Cain answers, glittering eyes flickering down once to the pistol at Charles’ belt before returning to his face, “I couldn’t care less about that rundown shithole, not when we were after a map that will bring us to treasure that’ll make us richer beyond belief. I know you have it,” he adds, dropping his arms and taking a step towards Charles, “so why don’t you do something actually useful for once in your life and hand it over.”

“You’re a monster,” Charles says, glaring at him and holding his ground as Cain advances.

“If you get down on your knees and beg nicely enough, I’ll consider dragging you back to Erik and asking him to let you live,” Cain continues, smirking, “you know, for old time’s sake. But it’s going to take a lot of _pretty_ begging to convince me.”

“Eat shit, Cain,” Charles says coldly, and then Nightcrawler hurls himself forward with a cry, plastering himself on Cain’s face right over his eyes.

Cain staggers sideways with a roar, lifting his hands to tear at the little Morph blindly, and while he’s distracted Charles darts forward, slipping past his cursing stepbrother and sprinting for the open and clear doorway.

“Thanks, buddy,” he pants when Nightcrawler catches up to him as he runs back the way he came, and Nightcrawler briefly transforms into a giant thumbs up.

“Charles!” Cain bellows after him, his loud, thundering footsteps giving chase behind them.

Charles doesn’t look back or slow down, confident in the fact that he’s still much faster than Cain is, if their childhood days are anything to go by. He makes it all the way back to the stairs he and Wade had initially crept down, bounding up them in three leaps to get up topside on the deck.

His foot catches on the top of the last step and he goes down hard, chin and elbows smashing into the wood of the deck just as Cain tramps up the stairs behind him. He’s on Charles in a flash, dragging him back up to his feet by the back of his jacket and ripping the plasma pistol away from Charles and throwing it across the deck out of reach before punching him in the stomach with a grunt. Charles doubles over in his grasp, gasping painfully for breath, but twists around and slams a fist into Cain’s eye, aiming a kick at his groin at the same time.

Cain drops him with a howl, Nightcrawler buzzing angrily around his face as he staggers backwards. Charles braces himself to hit the ground again but the impact never comes—he hears a loud zap, and then he starts to float upwards.

“Oh mama!” Wade’s voice comes faintly from somewhere below.

He must’ve accidentally pulled the plug for the ship’s artificial gravity machine, Charles thinks wildly as he grapples in midair for something to hold onto before he floats up too high to reach anything, doomed to drifting out of the planet’s atmosphere entirely. He snags one of the ratlines, gripping it tightly even as he weightlessly continues to rise.

Cain is floating up too, and he aims himself towards Charles, expression murderous. They perform an awkward ballet in midair, Charles trying to both maintain a hold on his line and keep out of Cain’s reach while Cain lunges at him again and again, kicking off against the mast and other rigging lines each new attempt.

Unaffected by the lack of gravity, Nightcrawler attempts to attack Cain again but Cain swats at him, batting him away like a fly. With a cry, the little Morph goes hurtling back towards the deck below, down for the count.

“Cain, stop!” Charles shouts as they float higher and higher, narrowly dodging another one of Cain’s lunges. At this rate if Cain knocks into him he’s going to send them both flying out into empty air with nothing to hold onto.

“Give me the map,” Cain snarls as they float up past the boom, snagging on to Charles’ ratline and ripping it out of his hands.

Charles’ hands scrabble across the edge of the sail, trying to find a good grip but the solar cells are slippery, sliding through his fingers like water. He’s starting to panic now, the deck far below him as he slowly but surely runs out of mast. Cain isn’t faring much better, also struggling to find purchase somewhere while continuing to angle himself up after Charles, still giving chase.

Charles draws even with the crow’s nest at the top of the mast, grabbing onto the railing of the tiny platform and achieving a firm grip on something at last. He pulls himself down as best as he can, still hanging upside down in midair, shuffling along the railing around to the other side to avoid Cain as his stepbrother reaches the crow’s nest too.

“Enough, Cain,” Charles calls after Cain has chased him around the circle of the railing twice, his arms starting to get tired from holding on, “this isn’t going to accomplish anything but—”

Cain doesn’t allow him to finish, pushing off from the railing and grabbing onto the top, thin part of the mast that sticks up out of the crow’s nest and swings himself around, feet aimed right for Charles’ face. With a yelp of surprise and reflexively, without thinking, Charles lets go.

His arms flail wildly a moment later as soon as his mind catches up, and he makes a desperate grab for the railing again, stretching as far as he can, but he’s already too high, his fingers missing by inches. He tries next for the mast, but he’s too far out from it to reach, and with nothing to push off against there’s no way for him to get any closer.

Heart in his throat, Charles realizes with numb shock that that’s it—he’s drifting away.

Something soft brushes against his back, and Charles quickly twists around to grab fistfuls of the flag that flaps gently at the very top of the mast, sucking in a sharp breath as he clutches onto his last hope. He still continues to float up, dragging the flag with him, until he’s hanging upside down high above the ship, with the flag stretched all the way out as far as it will go. Nightcrawler zips back up from below and buzzes around him, cheeping frantically.

Cain is slowly crawling up the mast towards him.

“Wait,” Charles calls desperately, staring at him with wide eyes, “I still have the map!”

“We’ve already reached Treasure Planet,” Cain says with a vicious smile that’s more of a snarl, reaching down into his pocket with one hand and pulling out a switchblade that he opens with a flick of his wrist, “I figure your map is all but useless now anyway.”

“You still have an entire planet to search!” Charles shouts as Cain begins to saw through the line that the flag is rigged on. “Cain! Listen to me!”

Something in Charles’ tone must hit home because Cain pauses, squinting up at him. “Hand down the map, and then I’ll pull you down.”

Charles shakes his head immediately. “Pull me down first and then I’ll give you the map.”

“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” Cain says mockingly, shaking his head, “you really think I’m going to trust you?”

“Do I look like I have any room to lie?” Charles snaps tersely, and then takes a breath, forcing himself to stay calm. He can’t afford to antagonize Cain right now. “Cain. I don’t know what I ever did to make you hate me so much, but whatever it is, I’m sorry. Pull me down. Please.”

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” Cain says scornfully, jabbing the knife up at him accusingly. “When Dad married your mom, it’s like I didn’t matter anymore. All he cared about was her and _you_. That’s why I left,” he continues, slashing the blade through the air in a flashing arc, “I figured he wouldn’t give a shit either way if I was there or not.”

Shocked into silence, Charles can only stare at him for a long moment.

“I didn’t ask for him to be like that,” Charles replies when he recovers from his surprise, “I always felt like he was smothering me. Like he was trying too hard to replace my real father.”

“Boohoo, Charlie,” Cain sneers, “what a shitty childhood you had, with all that attention.”

“You _know_ my real father shot himself in the head,” Charles snaps hotly, glaring down at him, “don’t you _dare_ act like it’s been a walk in the park for me. It’s not a competition, Cain. Don’t—”

“And then you show up here,” Cain seethes, beyond reasoning, “and once again, you suck away all the attention for yourself. We were supposed to munity a week ago, but Erik was too busy fucking around with _you_ to want to actually go with the original plan.”

Charles’ heart flutters despite himself at the thought of Erik holding off on his account—having second thoughts, maybe?—but he pushes it aside for now. “You know I can’t control that either, Cain,” he says firmly, refusing to directly acknowledge the nature of his relationship with Erik to Cain regardless of the circumstances. His arms are starting to ache, and he’s not sure how much longer his fingers can keep their grip on the canvas. His eyes dart down to the line Cain has half-sawed through. It won’t take much more for it to fray on its own and snap completely. “I think it’s past time for you to quit the pity party and get over yourself, it’s absolutely _pathetic_.”

It’s like pulling a trigger. Cain flings himself up at Charles with a roar, knife blade flashing. Charles yanks back on the flag, creating a small but still _there_ barrier between himself and his homicidal stepbrother, and then uses the last of his strength to pull himself down the flag, grabbing onto the mast.

Cain smacks into the flag, immediately getting all tangled up in the canvas like a net, and his added weight makes the line holding the flag snap at last. Charles keeps his grip on the mast but lunges for the loose end of the line attached to the flag, grabbing onto it with his other hand, making a small, pained sound when he’s yanked outwards, arms spread wide as he’s caught between the mast and his stepbrother. Nightcrawler hovers beside him, squeaking in worry.

“Cain,” Charles calls, panting, “climb down and grab my wrist.”

Cain glares at him. They’ve switched positions, and now he barely hangs onto the flag above Charles, staring down at him with cold fury. Charles shoulders and arms strain, his grip on both the ropes in either hand starting to slip.

“Come on, Cain!” he says, twisting a little in midair and trying to get a better grip on the lines but he has no leverage either way, “I can’t hold on like this much longer! Just grab onto me!”

“Fuck you, Charles,” Cain says, and he actually sounds tired, “I don’t want your goddamn charity.”

Charles’ eyes widen. “What are you—”

The knife in Cain’s other hand flashes down and there’s a loud ripping noise of fabric as it slashes through the flag. Charles feels the weight tugging him upwards go limp as Cain severs the flag in half, cutting himself loose and quickly rising up away from the ship.

 

 

“ _Cain!_ ” Charles shouts, in complete disbelief that Cain has actually—has really—

His stomach gives a sharp jump up to somewhere in his chest when the artificial gravity abruptly turns back on, and he drops back down into the crow’s nest several feet below with a loud thump. By the time he’s scrambled back up to his feet, Cain is nothing more than a tiny dot in the sky that soon disappears entirely from view.

“I misjudged him,” Charles says faintly to himself as Nightcrawler flutters around him, rubbing up against him in relief to see him unharmed, “I didn’t think he’d do that. I thought he’d take my hand.” He’d misjudged more than just that about Cain, and he can’t help but think tiredly that that’s three now—Cain, his mother, Erik.

He makes the long climb back down the mast as quickly as he can, arms shaking a little with exhaustion by the time his feet touch the deck again. The map is still tucked safely into his pocket, even after all that, and he doesn’t have to wait more than a few moments before Wade comes strolling up onto the deck from the engine room, whistling.

“Well that was exciting,” the android remarks, bouncing over to Charles, “but the cannons are all disabled, Captain!”

“Good,” Charles says wearily, and unable to come up with anything else to say, he turns and climbs up on the railing, jumping back down into the skiff.

They get themselves untied from the ship and then drift downwards, preparing to sail back down to the planet below. For the first time in his life, Charles thinks as the wind whips through his hair as he angles them down towards the land, he might actually be relieved to be leaving the sky behind.

X

There are still a few hours till dawn by the time Charles, Wade, and Nightcrawler make it back to the old, rusted ship hull of Wade’s home. After a brief debate, which mostly involves Charles thinking hard to himself while Wade sings a song that has something to do with it raining men and Nightcrawler tries to act it out in curious confusion, Charles decides that they won’t risk trying to return the skiff to the pirates’ campsite and instead asks Wade to direct him to the next closest entrance leading down to the planet’s subsurface mechanics.

It takes Wade half an hour to decide which manhole to lead them to, on the account that he can’t pick which one he thinks is prettiest. Charles has to threaten him—only half seriously, he tells himself, but it’s not like there isn’t some form of temptation—with throwing him over the side of the skiff if he doesn’t make a decision, and finally Wade settles on one that’s a couple miles away, which he assures Charles really is the next closest hole besides the one in the middle of the pirates’ campsite.

They anchor the skiff just outside of the hole and then slip down inside, jogging swiftly through the winding passageways of the planet’s strange innards, with Wade in the lead and Charles resigned to hoping that the android actually remembers the way. It’s with great relief that Charles comes to a stop, panting, when Wade proudly shows him the iron rung ladder that leads back up into his house.

“Hank,” Charles calls as soon as he emerges up from the manhole, climbing back up onto the surface and hopping down from the spherical doorway. He walks over towards the low pile of rocks where he thinks he can make out the forms of the astrophysicist and the captain curled together, digging the map out of his pocket and holding it out triumphantly. “Hank, I got the map!”

A robotic hand reaches out of the shadows and plucks it out of his grip, and Erik steps forward out of the dark, weighing the map idly in his hand. “Well done, Charles,” he says coolly, eyes glittering in the dim light, “I knew you’d pull through for us.”


	9. Chapter 9

 

X

 

Erik’s words are like a cue, because suddenly all around them the other pirates turn up their lanterns, casting light everywhere and revealing themselves, grinning and jeering. Hank and Raven are dragged into view, both tied up and gagged, Hank’s expression worried while Raven’s is disgruntled, and somewhere behind Charles there’s a dull thud as Wade is wrestled to the ground.

Charles only has eyes for Erik, staring at him while cold betrayal washes through him. It’s strange, because he should have expected this and shouldn’t even be surprised, but it still cuts deeply, twisting like a knife beneath his skin, right down to the bone.

He takes a step toward Erik without thinking, and whether or not he means to snatch the map back or punch Erik in the face remains unknown even to him as two pirates are on him instantly, dragging him backwards and wrenching his arms back behind him. “You said you’d wait till dawn,” he says, eyes still locked with Erik’s and unable to come up with anything else.

“It’s close enough,” Erik says calmly, rubbing the map against one sleeve. Then his voice hardens, driving each next word purposefully home. “I decided that since it’s not expected of me to hold true to my word, I needn’t bother trying anymore.”

It’s like a slap to the face and Charles can only gape at him, mouth falling open wordlessly. Not that it matters—Erik has already moved on, holding the map up so that it gleams brightly in the light of the lanterns, rotating it slowly and studying it carefully. Nightcrawler flies up and tries to snatch it out of his hand but Erik bats him away like an afterthought, sending the blue little Morph tumbling through the air with a squeak before he recovers and drops down to hide in Charles’ pocket.

“Open it,” Erik says, holding the sphere back out to Charles.

The pirates behind him loosen their grip and Charles yanks his arms away from them, glaring at Erik as he rubs his wrists. He accepts the map back after that, holding it between his hands. “No.”

Erik lifts an eyebrow, and glances over at Hank and Raven. “Reconsider.”

Charles looks over at his companions as one of the pirates cocks a pistol, aiming it at their faces with a smirk. Raven shakes her head furiously, yellow eyes bright with anger, and after a glance at Raven Hank shakes his head no as well, but his shoulders are slumped in defeat.

“Why are you doing this?” Charles asks, looking back to Erik again and trying to understand.

“Just open the map, Charles,” Erik growls through gritted teeth, his expression leaving no room for further argument.

Charles narrows his eyes and without looking away from Erik he taps out the complex code across the alien symbols etched into the bronze surface of the sphere. He feels it pop open in his hands with a small click, projecting green light out into the center of the room, forming a hovering image of Treasure Planet just like it had back in Hank’s library on Montressor. All of the pirates except Erik gather around it with greedy wonder, gasping collectively in confusion when the planet dissolves, forming into a long, green line of light that shoots out of Wade’s home and curves around the side of the entrance.

Erik walks over to the doorway calmly and looks out, his gaze following the green signal beam that heads off far into the distance. “It appears we have our bearing, gentlemen,” he says, and the pirates let out a raucous cheer, hoisting fists and guns up into the air.

It dies instantly and turns into angry protests when Charles shuts the map, the green trail of light disappearing. Erik turns around again and raises an eyebrow, surveying him coolly.

“You’re not getting the map open without me,” Charles says flatly, ignoring the menacing pirates slowly closing in on him and focusing only on Erik, “so if you want it, you have to take me with you.”

For a moment, Erik almost looks amused. The expression is gone in less than a second, and his face is artfully blank once again. “Very well,” he answers, and Charles feels at least one knot of tension loosen within him, “you will accompany us. The captain and Dr. McCoy will be brought back up to the ship and remain there as insurance for your good behavior.” Before Charles can answer, Erik turns his attention to his crew. “Four of you will remain behind to keep an eye on them. It’s too dark for us to set out just yet, but in the meantime the metal man—” his gaze flicks down to Wade briefly, “—will show us where they’ve hidden the skiff.”

“What about him?” A meaty hand closes around Charles’ forearm and doesn’t let go, even when he tries to tug free.

Erik appraises him, drawing the moment out, and then lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Put him in my tent.”

Charles feels himself flush with a volatile mix of anger and humiliation as the pirates begin to catcall, jeering at him as the pirate who has a hold on him begins to tow him towards the entrance of Wade’s home. Erik meets his furious gaze calmly, plucking the map out of his hand as he passes and tucking it into his own coat pocket. Charles doesn’t even get a chance to look for Hank and Raven again—and he’s not sure that he even wants to, after that—before he’s being pulled outside into the cold, dark night and is half-dragged, half-led down the hill.

“I can walk on my own,” he snaps, but the man doesn’t let go, forcing him to stagger sideways awkwardly the entire way, pulling him across the meadow and over to the edge of the trees where the pirates’ campsite still remains.

The fire is little more than a pile of ashes, various empty bedrolls still spread out haphazardly around it. Charles is led past them all, further into the trees, and no wonder he hadn’t been able to spot Erik before when he and Wade had stolen the skiff—the tent blends right into the shadows, camouflaged by bushes.

The pirate pulls back the tent flap and shoves Charles in hard enough to send him sprawling, landing on his hands and knees in the soft pile of Erik’s abandoned bedroll. The pirate laughs at that, smirking at him lecherously before withdrawing, zipping the door shut.

Immediately Charles crawls back over to the door and unzips a tiny corner, peering out. He’s met with the sight of the pirate settling down with his back against a mossy stump a couple yards away, facing the door of the tent. He sees Charles peeking out and purposefully sets his lantern down beside himself and then pulls out his plasma pistol, laying it across his lap.

Charles leans back away from the door, zipping it all the way shut again. He could rip a hole in the back of the tent and crawl out that way, but what good would it really do? Hank and Raven are still at the mercy of the pirates, and Charles doesn’t even have the map anymore. He’s trapped.

He retreats back to the furthest corner of the tent, drawing his knees up to his chest. Nightcrawler wriggles out of his pocket, floating up to blink at him with a soft chirp. Charles scratches the Morph under the chin until he purrs, wagging a tiny blue tail before moving to settle on top of Charles’ head, nestling down in his hair with a sigh.

Charles is more angry than afraid, which he grimly counts as a good thing. He’s not afraid of Erik—his crew makes Charles more nervous than the cyborg himself—but he _is_ worried about Hank and Raven, and hopes that they’re being treated decently as Erik had seemed to imply.

Beyond that, his mind races furiously, coming up with hundreds of things to say to Erik whenever he decides to grace him with his presence again. They range from petty and insulting to deeply accusing, and the longer Charles is made to sit and wait, boiling with annoyance and still smarting from how Erik had humiliated him in front of everyone, the more and more he comes up with.

It doesn’t last long, however. Gradually, with no outlet to unleash his temper on, Charles cools as Erik still fails to arrive. The past few hours are beginning to catch up with him, too; he’s had a long, eventful day, plus a long, eventful night of no sleep thus far. He remains curled in on himself even though he’s beginning to feel sore from sitting on the cold, hard ground, a chill creeping up into him slowly but surely. He hadn’t realized how cold the planet has gotten during the night—before he’d been inside the relative warmth of Wade’s home, and during their raid on the ship he’d had adrenaline and nerves to keep him warm. Now he finds himself trying not to shiver.

Erik’s bedroll lies in the middle of the tent, inviting the possibility for warmth, but Charles _refuses_.

Charles is nodding off, forehead resting on his knees with Nightcrawler snoring softly in his hair when voices jolt him back to wakefulness, lifting his head and blinking blearily as the sounds of the pirates settling back down in their campsite come from outside the tent. Spirits are high, voices cheerful and plenty of laughs ring out through the trees, and Charles’ nerves spike when he hears Erik’s voice, low and cool but carrying far nonetheless as he orders the men to anchor the skiff down and set a watch.

More light flares up outside and the crackle of wood can be heard as the fire is rekindled, but Charles waits, tense and in the dark, as footsteps come and go past the tent. Gradually the pirates quiet, settling down to sleep away the last few hours before dawn despite their obvious excitement. Finally, at long last, Charles hears the approach of extremely familiar footsteps, heavier on one side, along with the quiet whirr of gears that signals Erik’s return.

Erik unzips the door of the tent in one motion, ducking his head inside and his gaze landing on Charles immediately, not that it’s hard to find him huddled in the back corner of the tent. Bright light from the fire streams in from behind him so Charles screws up his eyes to keep from being blinded, and by the time his vision has cleared Erik is inside the tent and zipping the door shut again behind him.

“That looks cold,” Erik says, nodding to Charles’ hunkered down position as he carefully lowers himself down onto his bedroll, stretching out his legs one by one to pull off his boots. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

Charles bristles. “If you even _try_ to touch me—”

“I’m not going to fuck you,” Erik interrupts him dryly. Charles' eyes are adjusted enough to the dim light that he can make out the wry look Erik sends him. “Relax.”

“Then why’d you make a big show out of having me hauled off to your private tent,” Charles snaps, his voice hoarse from the last hour or so of disuse, though not without a small twinge of relief. He hadn’t truly believed that Erik would actually force himself on him, but confirmation after being held so long in suspense is nice.

“So I can keep an eye on you myself,” Erik answers calmly, so blunt that Charles immediately accepts it as the truth. “Your IQ is miles above that of any of my men, and you’re currently more mobile than Captain Darkholme and more prone to foolish acts of bravery than Dr. McCoy, so I don’t trust my crew not slip up when it comes to you.”

Charles snorts. “It’s not like it’s hard to outwit a bunch of dim-witted fools.”

Erik huffs out a breath, tossing his boots into the corner near the door. “Not for you.”

“What have you done with Hank and Raven?” Charles demands. He relaxes slightly, though, uncurling slightly from his defensive position and sitting cross-legged instead, still keeping his distance.

“They’re up on the ship, just as I said,” Erik answers patiently, doing a few stretches with his robotic arm. “Still tied up, but we took the gags out. They’re fine. And your interesting friend Wade is tied up in the skiff. He’ll be accompanying us as well, since I saw how much damage he can cause to the ship when left unsupervised for longer than one second.”

Charles lets out a quiet breath of relief. Hank and Raven are unharmed for now, and he’s glad that Erik hadn’t had Wade dismantled or anything else equally gruesome. “Wade is awfully quiet if he’s really down here.”

“I impressed upon him the need to sit very still and contemplate the meaning of _silent as the grave_ ,” Erik says coolly, “and we confiscated his swords in case he got any ideas.”

“I very much doubt that Wade is capable of hurting a fly,” Charles answers, neglecting to add that the android had almost cut him in half out of pure exuberance.

“I’d rather be safe than sorry,” Erik answers evenly, followed by a small pause of silence between them while he studies Charles through the dark. “Cain is missing. Wade assured me close to fifty times that he never met Cain while wreaking havoc upon the ship, which leads me to believe that _you_ did.”

Charles looks away. “Cain is gone.”

Erik is silent for a moment, and Charles doesn’t look back at him to see what his expression holds. He’s not sure what would be worse, Erik’s usual stoicism or if Erik took on something close to pity.

“The artificial gravity was down for a few minutes,” Charles says abruptly, the words rushing out of his mouth like a stream, “and he was trying to kill me. We floated all the way up to the top of the mast and I was holding on and—I tried to grab him,” he says, shaking his head, “I would’ve pulled him back down, but he cut himself loose.”

“His choice, then,” Erik says, “not your fault.”

Charles makes a noncommittal sound, shifting uneasily where he sits. He does feel vaguely better, somehow, to have at least confessed to someone. He tenses again when he sees Erik move out of the corner of his eye, leaning forward towards him with one arm outstretched, but Erik merely gently scoops Nightcrawler off Charles’ head, settling the sleeping Morph down at the end of his bedroll. If Erik notices how Charles stiffened—and there’s no doubt that he did, those sharp eyes rarely miss a thing—he doesn’t mention it.

“Why are you doing this?” Charles asks again, quiet but curious. “Why is the treasure so important to you?” _That you’d still betray me after everything we’ve been through_ goes left unsaid.

“If I tell you that I just want to get rich very quickly, would you believe me?” Erik answers dryly.

“No,” Charles says stoutly.

Erik makes a small, amused sound but then he’s quiet for a few long moments, sinking into a thoughtful silence. Charles doesn’t push, studying the profile of his silhouette through the dark and letting him think.

“It’s my way out,” Erik says eventually, the words riding a quiet sigh, “if we find the treasure, I can finally walk away.”

“Walk away from what?” Charles asks. “Being a pirate?”

“I didn’t start out as one, you know,” Erik says dryly, and Charles makes an impatient noise.

“I realize that,” he says, rolling his eyes despite the fact that Erik probably can’t see, “I just—don’t understand,” he admits after a small hesitation. “What’s stopping you from walking away right now?”

Erik laughs mirthlessly. “When you’re the captain of a crew of pirates, you don’t just walk away. They expect things from you. They expect you to lead them on raids, to ensure that they stay fed and rich. You don’t turn your back and walk away, or you’ll end up with a knife in it. Giving up captaincy is a sign of weakness. There’s no room for showing any form of weakness in this life. But if I can lead them to the ultimate treasure, the treasure of a thousand worlds...” he trails off for a moment, musing. “That would satisfy them. I could take my share and disappear, and not have to worry about them tracking me down, wanting more.”

“Why even be captain in the first place, then?” Charles wonders. “Why accept the position in the first place if all you wanted to do was get out?”

“There was once a notorious pirate captain by the name of Sebastian Shaw,” Erik says, his voice going flat and toneless, as if reading off a fact sheet. “You might have heard of him on the Nets when you were young. He was known best for hitting transporter shuttles, the bigger the better. He liked to take his pick of the passengers’ possessions, and once he had whatever he wanted, his crew had free reign to do as they pleased. When they were finished, all the passengers were usually executed one by one and then transporter ship was blasted to pieces by cannonfire.”

“It sounds familiar,” Charles answers, trying to recall the intergalactic news stories from around the time of his childhood with a certain amount of dread. “He hasn’t been heard of in years, right? They never caught him but he just...disappeared.”

“My mother and I were traveling from Hilana to Forsius,” Erik continues, naming two tiny planets that Charles recognizes, neither of them very far from Montressor at all on the outer rim of the galaxy, “when he attacked the transporter we were on. You know what transporters look like. Massive, hulking, more bathtub than ship. Hardly any worthy defenses, especially against pirates who always have fast ships. There was nothing our captain and crew could do. The pirates had us pinned in minutes.”

Charles doesn’t interrupt, fascinated to finally have Erik revealing a part of his past even as his dread only continues to grow with every word. He can already guess what’s coming but he doesn’t say a word, hardly daring to move or breathe too loudly in case it makes Erik stop.

“I was injured in the first few cannon blasts the pirates fired to incapacitate the ship,” Erik says. He lifts his robotic arm, and then taps his matching leg. “One of the blasts blew a chunk of wood clear through my leg, and my arm was crushed when a stack of barrels toppled over and rolled across me. I didn’t know it then, but I’d eventually lose them both.”

Outside the fire cracks and Charles has to stop himself from flinching, the noise too loud in the quiet.

“The pirates boarded us, looting whatever they wanted. It’s not like we could stop them. And then it came time for the executions.” Erik’s robotic fist clenches with a grind of metal. “My mother and I were the last two left. I remember Shaw looking down at us with a smile, even as my mother begged—not for her life, but for _mine_.”

Erik draws in a ragged breath, pausing for a moment. Charles is frozen.

“I don’t know why he chose me. I was heavily injured, already slowly bleeding out across the deck. I was small and young, more burden than asset. But Shaw shot my mother right in front of me, and then the next thing I can I remember is waking up aboard his ship, earlier versions of my new arm and leg already attached to me. He’d made me part of his crew.”

“Erik,” Charles says, finally breaking his silence, horrified and filled with a deep, aching sorrow for the man sitting across from him in the tent. He almost reaches out across the short distance to take Erik’s other hand, but he stays where he is, unsure of his welcome.

“After that, Shaw raised me as his own,” Erik says, determinedly empty and void of all emotion. “At first I was little more than an amusing pet. Later it started to become clear that I was to be his protégé. I went along with it, but I hated him. I wanted nothing more than to see him dead.

“I bided my time. Shaw was getting old and complacent. Lazy. The crew was getting restless. We were going on fewer raids, and they weren’t getting paid as well as they were used to. I was careful. We planned a mutiny for weeks, waiting for the opportune moment. And when it came, I took the lead. I didn’t want to take any chances. I killed Sebastian Shaw, and in his place the crew named me as their new captain. I have been ever since.”

“Oh, Erik,” Charles whispers, shaking his head. _You didn’t kill the man_ , he thinks, not daring to voice the words out loud, _you only replaced him_.

Erik doesn’t say anything else, as if rehashing the past has taken a lot out of him. It feels that way to Charles, and all he’d been doing was listening.

“I’m sorry for the loss of your mother,” Charles says softly, when the silence has gone on for an appropriate length and he deems it safe to speak. “I know how it is.”

“I know you do,” Erik answers, turning his head to look at Charles for the first time since he started speaking. It’s too dark for Charles to see his expression.

“I understand now, why you’ve taken the actions that you have,” Charles says slowly, choosing his words carefully, “but that doesn’t mean I forgive you. I chose to trust you. You betrayed that trust by not doing the same.”

“I understand,” Erik echoes him, voice heavy with finality. Slowly, broadcasting his intentions to give Charles the time and choice to back away, he reaches forward in the dark, setting his fingers deftly against Charles’ cheek. Charles holds himself very still, leaning neither away nor into the touch. “For whatever it’s worth to you, I am sorry. You were an anomaly in the plan. You...I wasn’t…” He exhales softly. “You make me feel things that I haven’t felt in a very long time.”

Charles draws in a shaky breath and Erik withdraws his hand, dropping his arm down to his side again. Charles’ emotions jumble and swirl together, tangling up in a roiling mass in the pit of his stomach until he’s no longer sure at all how to feel about Erik. It was easier when he could just be angry at him, straightforward and simple, but now he knows that there’s more to Erik than just a cold, heartless pirate who cares for nothing more than plunder and riches.

It doesn’t excuse what he’s done, not in the slightest, but Charles thinks he can believe now that at the very least Erik wasn’t using him, playing with his feelings and his heart only to get to the map and treasure. There’s still _good_ in Erik—Charles has seen it—despite everything. He only has to prove that he can call it to the surface and keep it there, instead of keeping it buried beneath years of anger and hate.

“There’s still a few more hours till dawn,” Erik says, shifting around where he sits and sliding into his bedroll, “so we might as well sleep.” He lies down, propping himself up on one elbow and holding the blanket open. “Get in, it’s cold. Nothing untoward, I promise.”

Charles hesitates. He can’t deny that he _is_ cold, and the alternative to slipping into the bedroll with Erik is curling up on his own, minus a blanket and a soft sleeping pad.

He tells himself that it’s for the sake of retaining all his limbs and not losing anything to frostbite and kicks off his boots before creeping forward across the short distance, awkwardly climbing into the bedroll beside Erik while trying to maintain as much distance as possible and still remaining under the blanket. He lies down quickly on his side, facing away from Erik, and then yelps when an arm drops down around his stomach and drags him backwards, tucking his back right up against Erik’s chest.

“You’re freezing,” Erik murmurs, nose pressed into Charles’ hair. He slides a knee between Charles’ legs, curling around him further and encasing him in warmth.

 

 

Charles squirms for a moment, just because he can. “Nothing untoward,” he mutters scathingly, kicking at Erik’s feet pointedly with his own, but then he settles, because not that he’ll ever admit it but the heat Erik radiates like a human furnace feels divine as it seeps through him, erasing the biting chill of the cold night air.

“Go to sleep,” Erik says, giving him a meaningful squeeze, but then his grip slackens, already drifting off. It must be a special pirate skill, to be able to fall asleep quickly no matter the location, even while wrapped like an octopus around your hostage.

Charles doesn’t last much longer either, worn out and exhausted. It’s easy to let himself fall asleep while cocooned by Erik’s warmth, and despite the fact that he’s surrounded by pirates and wrapped in the arms of their leader, he still feels unquestionably safe.

 

X

 

Charles wakes in the morning to Erik’s hand creeping up beneath his shirt, splaying across his belly and rubbing slow, steady circles across his bare skin with his thumb. “Good morning,” Erik rumbles when Charles shivers, his chest pressed against Charles’ back vibrating with the words.

Charles wiggles in Erik’s grasp, rolling over to face him. Erik’s face is inches from his own, his hand resting against Charles’ back now and their legs still tangled together. Charles takes in Erik’s sleep-rumpled but content features, looking up at him in the early morning light of dawn, studying him pensively while Erik watches him back.

“I’m still angry with you,” Charles says softly, but there’s not a lot of conviction behind it. He and Erik are breathing almost perfectly in sync, chests rising and falling against one another in unison, slow and steady.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Erik answers, sliding a hand up between them to brush a thumb, feather-light, across Charles’ cheek as if he can’t resist touching him. Charles closes his eyes and focuses on the touch alone, blocking out everything else.

The storm of his emotions has subsided in the night leaving behind calm and peace, breaking clear and fresh like the new day outside. Charles is still wary of Erik, not entirely ready to trust him fully, but he understands Erik better now, and knows where he’s coming from. That’s good enough, for now.

“Here,” Erik says a few minutes later once they’ve untangled themselves and gotten up, bedroll neatly rolled and folded away. Charles looks up from wrestling his boot laces back from Nightcrawler and raises his eyebrows at the map Erik holds out to him. “Hold onto this for me, will you?”

Charles reaches to take it cautiously, and when Erik doesn’t pull his hand back he picks the map up, weighing it contemplatively. “If you’re sure.”

“You’re our navigator,” Erik answers, and then pushes himself up to his feet, ducking his head on the account of the low tent ceiling. Even so, he still towers over Charles. “Try not to lead us astray.”

Before Charles can read too far into that Erik unzips the door and steps outside, greeted by a few of his men. Charles tugs his laces out of Nightcrawler’s grip and ties them slowly, tucking the map away, and by the time he too clambers out of the tent the campsite is mostly disassembled, bedrolls packed up and dirt kicked over the ashy remains of the fire. Two men brush past him roughly to deal with Erik’s tent, leering at him and ignoring Nightcrawler’s indignant hiss on Charles’ behalf, and that’s when Charles remembers—he’s supposed to have been fucked into submission by their captain last night.

They’re awfully dull if they think it actually happened, Charles thinks to himself as he crosses over to where he sees Erik standing near the skiff, it’s not like they had made any form of suggestive noises last night. If only they knew that their stoic, intimidating captain is a cuddler.

Erik passes him a dried biscuit when Charles comes to a stop next to him, which Charles accepts without comment, chewing on it thoughtfully while they watch the men get the skiff packed up and loaded properly. Erik’s only brought back six men with him, leaving the rest to guard Hank and Raven up on the ship.

Despite the presence of the pirates and the fact that he’s technically a captive, Charles can feel excitement slowly starting to build in his chest. They’re going to find the treasure today. The legendary treasure of Captain Flint, the loot of a thousand worlds, the trove that so many before them have tried and failed to find. But they’re here—they’ve found the planet and they’ve got the map to point their way.

“Charles!” Wade’s head pops up over the side, delighted to see him. It looks like he’s been untied for the day, clearly deemed harmless. “Oh! And good morning, Captain Commander Admiral Your Royal Highness Majesty!”

Charles blinks, and it takes him a moment to realize that Wade is addressing Erik. “Hi Wade,” he greets the deranged robot while trying not to grin at Erik’s flat look. “I hope you weren’t uncomfortable last night.”

“Why, I feel as if I’ve slept on a cloud!” Wade proclaims, jumping up to his feet. The motion makes the entire skiff rock and the men loading it begin to curse. “Er,” he says, looking back to Erik sheepishly, “silent as the grave.”

“And still as one,” Erik says coldly, and Wade salutes, sitting back down again.

It’s a tight fit for all of them to squeeze into the skiff but somehow they manage it, Charles squished next to Erik onto the tiny bench in the very bow of the boat with all six men plus Wade filling in behind them. Charles taps out the code to reopen the map as Nightcrawler snuggles back down into his pocket and just like yesterday the bronze sphere shoots out a glowing green trail of flashing light that zooms off into the distance, pointing the way.

At Erik’s command the skiff’s sail snaps open and they rise into the air, drifting up through the trees and then taking off at full speed once they’re clear of the treeline. The sun overhead is bright, making the solar cells glimmer dazzlingly, and they have a good, strong breeze at their back as they race over the strange terrain of Treasure Planet. Charles keeps a tight grip on the map in his hands but closes his eyes for a moment, relishing the wind in his hair as he always does, which never fails to lift his spirits even higher, until he feels like he’s soaring, free and on his own, as if he’s back on Montressor with one of his homemade solar surfers.

The warm, solid press of Erik’s body beside his own is grounding, but not entirely in a bad way.

Charles loses track of how long they fly, the sun slowly climbing higher and higher into the sky overhead as the forest runs out beneath them, transforming into a wild swamp. Their guiding green light never falters or fades, always lancing ahead of them with sharp, clear purpose, and the tillerman holds their course steady, following the light into the horizon.

Gradually the trail begins to angle downwards, slowly bringing them closer and closer to the ground, and Charles can nearly taste the anticipation wafting around them like a thick smog as the skiff swoops down low, brought to a gliding halt in front of a tall, thick copse of thin, reedy trees, bunched too densely to see through. The trail of light doesn’t stop, passing right through them and presumably leading out the other side.

Or perhaps the treasure is _in_ side.

Erik vaults himself over the side of the skiff as his men see about anchoring it down, turning to offer Charles a helping hand down but Charles is already jumping, landing in the tightly-packed dirt beside him in a crouch and straightening without assistance, map still in hand. Nightcrawler peeks out of Charles’ pocket curiously, and then when he sees that they’ve stopped he emerges entirely, shooting out into the air with a happy squeak and doing a few energetic laps around the small clearing.

“Man, this place seems familiar,” Wade remarks, and then promptly faceplants out of the skiff onto the ground. “I can’t remember why. Maybe I went on a date here once? Oh, a mind is such a _terrible_ thing to lose.”

“Clear the way,” Erik orders, gesturing at the thick growth of trees, “we’re getting close. Hack it down.”

“Honestly, Erik,” Charles remarks exasperatedly as the pirates set to slicing their way through the foliage, “was that really necessary? We have no idea what kind of plants those are, or if they’re endangered.”

“I don’t like the feel of this planet,” Erik informs him flatly, folding his arms across his chest. “The sooner we find the treasure and leave, the better.”

Charles opens his mouth to retort, but the words never come, suddenly struck by the thought of what’s to come after they find the treasure. Will he, Hank, and Raven be spared? Or will the pirates simply toss them over the side, either marooned here or worse, cast adrift in space? Charles knows with confidence, now, that Erik truly has no intention of harming him, but what comes next? If Erik really does walk away from life as a pirate, where will he go? Charles doesn’t know how to feel about any of the options that come to mind. He doesn’t know how he feels about _Erik_.

“Charles?” Erik asks, looking at Charles intently, and Nightcrawler flies up close to peer into his eyes with an inquisitive chirp. He must’ve zoned out for too long.

He waves Nightcrawler away, but before he can reply he’s interrupted by a shout of outrage. The pirates have hacked all the way through the trees, emerging out onto the other side of the grove, which as Charles follows Erik over he realizes is little more than a short stretch of moss-covered rock that ends in an abrupt cliff, looking out across a wide, deep canyon that reminds Charles of home.

The glowing trail of green light stops abruptly in midair several feet above the edge of the cliff.

“There’s nothing here!” one of the men snaps, rounding on Erik and Charles as they approach. “The treasure can’t be in thin air!”

“What’s going on with the map, Charles?” Erik asks him calmly, unruffled by the sudden downturn in his crew’s mood.

“Nothing,” Charles answers in confusion, holding up the sphere for him to see. “It hasn’t changed—I don’t understand.”

“We never should have trusted this _boy_ ,” snarls another man, and two hands shove Charles from behind, sending him sprawling onto the ground. “He’s led us to the middle of nowhere!”

Erik draws his pistol and cocks it with an ominous click all in one motion, pointing the barrel lazily but steadily at the other pirate. “Touch him again,” he says, icily calm, “and I’ll put more holes in you than you’ll know what to do with.”

Down on his hands and knees, Charles is barely listening, even when another argument starts to break out. Instead he examines the rock he’s fallen onto, brushing away the moss that had hardly served as a good cushion carefully. He can make out a few small symbols carved into the rock beneath the moss that look similar to the ones etched onto the map, and when he reaches further he finds a small indent, perfectly shaped to fit the exact size of the sphere.

Charles jams the map down into the indentation, calling breathlessly, “Erik!” when the markings in the stone and the ones in the sphere both begin to glow green.

Erik helps pull Charles back up to his feet as the green light expands outward over the cliff like a laser pointer, tracing the shape of a giant triangle that towers up large enough for an entire ship to fit through with plenty of room left over. From the map a small, detailed model of the galaxy projects upwards at waist height, rotating slowly on the spot. The inside of the triangle flickers once, and then they’re staring into open outer space, stars twinkling up close while pink nebula dust and gas billows past.

“Impossible,” Erik says, and it’s the first time Charles has ever heard him come close to sounding unnerved.

“It’s a door,” Charles says with wonder, stepping closer to the projection of the galaxy. He lifts a hand and touches a planet orbiting swiftly around a star at random, and in front of them the door flickers and changes—now they’re looking at a steaming tropical jungle, flocks of brightly colored birds gliding past. With a small laugh of delight, he presses another one, and this time they’re given a view of an ocean, cobalt blue with waves that glitter beneath the rays of dual suns.

Erik steps up beside him and gives it a try. The door flickers through a frozen tundra, craggy mountains that actually float high above neon green clouds, a desert that they can barely make out due to the sandstorm currently raging, an industrial city with thousands of shuttles buzzing through towering skyscrapers like flies. There’s not a single planet or star that the door doesn’t open to, and when Charles finds Montressor and reaches forward to tap the tiny planet, they’re greeted by a view of Crescentia, the enormous crescent-moon spaceport thriving with activity, ships coming and going while the planet itself rotates idly beyond it.

“ _This_ is how Flint was never captured,” Charles says, caught up enough by the excitement of discovery to grin up at Erik, “because you know how the old stories go. His ship would always appear out of nowhere, attack and pillage, and then vanish without a trace. They could never catch him because there was no way for them to chase him—not if he was slipping in and out of this door and crossing _billions_ of light years in _seconds_!”

“Where’s his treasure, then?” Erik asks, an edge of frustration entering his voice. He taps a quick succession of planets rapidly, the door flickering rapidly through a myriad of sceneries. “The door is a neat trick but it’s useless to me if it doesn’t show where he hid his—”

“Well,” Charles says, reaching down through all the stars and planets in the galaxy with a small smile, “you just have to open the right door.”

He taps Treasure Planet and the door flickers one last time before falling resolutely still. At first Charles thinks that they’re looking in at the strange, mechanical planet’s core, but then he realizes that it’s not solid and liquid iron that’s slowly rotating in the center of a vast, empty cavern.

He steps forward towards the door slowly, extending a hand forward to touch the thin, clear surface of the window-like door, only to have Erik’s hand land on his shoulder to pull him back gently. Erik takes the lead, pushing through the thin force field that gives way easily first, stepping off the cliff and into the cavern. Charles follows him, a small chill running down his spine as he passes through the field, walking out onto a large metal platform that appears to serve as a doormat of sorts. Hovering at his shoulder, Nightcrawler coos in awe.

It’s _gold_ , mountains of it, completely covering the core of the planet that’s massive enough to almost be a planet itself. Charles recognizes the huge pipes he’d seen when sneaking around with Wade descending down from all sides of the cavern, blasting huge, concentrated streams of plasma into the large holes that crater the core seemingly at random as it slowly rotates, and where the energy comes from or goes or what it even accomplishes Charles can’t begin to fathom.

It’s the gold, however, that draws his attention the most: coins, necklaces, crowns, cutlery and plates, statues, chairs, and chests; anything and everything that Charles can possibly imagine is there, in all shapes and sizes. There are diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, too, all kinds of precious stones sparkling like stars in a sea of gleaming gold.

“We found it,” he breathes in amazement, because here they finally are, standing before the most legendary treasure trove in the entire galaxy, and it’s here, it’s _real_ , “the loot of a thousand worlds.”

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last full chapter! Thank you all for sticking with us - and be sure to hang around for the epilogue too!

 

X

 

The pirates break out in cheers, running out into the gold and diving down into it like it really is an ocean, showering themselves with riches as they celebrate. Even Erik staggers a few paces out off the platform into the gold, scooping up a handful of coins and jewels and letting them cascade out of his hand in a small, tinkling shower, as if he truly can’t believe that they’re really here. Charles watches him with a small, soft smile, knowing that the treasure means more than just money to Erik—it’s hope, and to see Erik find it again after so many long, dark years without it nearly makes Charles’ heart want to burst.

He looks away quickly, in case Erik happens to glance back at him and catches him staring.

“I’m getting a really strong sense of déjà vu,” Wade says, trotting over to stand next to him. He waves his spindly arms around haphazardly. “All of this seems so familiar but I can’t remember ever coming to a bar like this before. I would remember going to a bar. I would love everyone in it. With my _whole_ heart.”

“We’re not in a bar, Wade,” Charles answers absently, hopping down off the platform and sinking up to his shins in the treasure. He’s caught sight of an old, battered longboat half-buried in the side of a giant mound of gold coins, and it’s given him an idea: if he can get it flying again, he, Hank, and Raven—and Erik, a tiny voice in the back of his mind adds hopefully, if Erik truly wants to give up piracy—can use it to escape from the pirates.

None of the pirates are watching, too busy greedily scooping up as much treasure as they can carry, so Charles wades through the gold towards the skiff, Wade prancing along behind him. Nightcrawler bounces happily along too, darting through all the cracks and crevices amongst the heaps of treasure like a minnow darting through a reef. It’s a little bit of a struggle to make it up the side of the mound, the gold coins slipping and sliding like loose sand grains as Charles climbs, and every one step forward is nearly two steps backwards, but finally he’s within reach to grab onto the side of the longboat, heaving himself upwards and tumbling down onto solid wood inside the vessel and freezing.

“—and then the whale says to the squid, you keep _kraken_ those jokes but one of these days I’m going to— _aaahhh_!” Wade shrieks as he climbs up over the side of the boat, tripping over the railing and crashing down onto the deck with a loud thud.

Charles somewhat agrees with the sentiment. Sitting enthroned in the captain’s chair behind the wheel is a grisly skeleton, draped with the rotten remains of clothes. Gold and jewels are piled on and scattered around it, as if the man the skeleton once belonged to had gathered up as much evidence of his wealth as possible and arranged it around himself before he died.

“Captain Flint!” Wade exclaims, picking himself up off the floor. “In the flesh! Well actually, he lacks anything to do with flesh, but there you go.”

Charles approaches the skeleton cautiously for a closer look, almost half-expecting it to suddenly spring to life and attack. Flint’s remains stay firmly put, even when Charles leans in close to examine his six staring, empty eye sockets. Nightcrawler sidles up close to the enormous ruby set into the thick gold ring Flint wears on one bony finger, making faces at his own reflection.

The finger, along with its fellows, is clenched tightly around a small, metal object that immediately strikes Charles as odd—it’s a garish red color, and certainly doesn’t appear to be made out of any kind of precious material. He pries the object loose from Flint’s hand to study the thin piece of metal closer, finding a small connector pad on the back and then he realizes that this shade of red is very, very familiar.

 

 

“Wade,” he says slowly, turning around to face the android, who is currently waxing lyrical about the merits of tacos made out of pancakes, “I think I found your mind.”

“—and then add whipped cream on _top_ of the taco sauce—”

Charles spins Wade around so he can take a look at the back of the deranged robot’s head. Sure enough, the three loose wires sticking out match the three connectors on the back of the piece of metal, attached to a small green chip. He grabs the wires and hooks them up, snapping down the piece of metal into Wade’s head where it fits perfectly with a sharp click.

“Whoa!” Wade shouts, whirling around. “ _Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me_!” He blinks rapidly, the green lights in his eyes turning blue, and he suddenly grabs Charles by the shoulders, shaking him. “I remember now! I can remember! My memories are back!”

Charles grins, gently extracting himself from Wade’s grip but patting his arm. “Congratulations, Wade. I’m happy for you.”

“I remember why this place is so familiar!” Wade continues, jumping up and down in place. “Flint brought me here to help with the programming before he ripped the memory chip out of my head so I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone who finds his treasure that he’s rigged this entire place to BLOW!”

“What?” Charles asks blankly, half out of incomprehension and half out of disbelief.

Then he feels the rumbling.

It starts low, with faint tremors that grow larger and larger until it feels like one of the massive earthquakes that happen down in the Montressor mines, and Charles has to grab onto the wheel of the boat to keep his footing. The vast pipes that were previously only shooting out timed, short bursts of plasma energy suddenly turn on full, spurting continuous blasts, a huge outpouring of power that only adds to the shaking, and then with a loud groan of metal giving way that Charles feels in his bones the treasure-covered core of the planet begins to split apart.

“Is there any way to stop it?” Charles cries as the bright cracks spider-webbing across the surface of the core begin to widen, revealing a potent, churning mix of plasma and magma that’s already boiling upwards. The pirates shout in dismay as all around them, the treasure begins to fall with a loud rushing sound, sliding down into the magma and lost forever.

Wade shakes his head. “No, there’s no failsafe! Once you trip the switch, there’s no stopping the planet from blowing up! It’s the last jamboree! Yeeeeehaaaaaw!”

As Charles watches in horror, one of the fissures opens up right beneath three of the pirates as they struggle towards the triangle door, trying to carry a huge chest of gold coins between them. Their greed is their undoing, slowing them down and rendering them unable to outrun the widening gap, and with loud screams all three of them plunge down out of sight and into the magma below.

He spots the other three pirates already climbing up onto the metal platform, stumbling and tripping over themselves as they run through the door and back out onto the surface of the planet. Well there goes the skiff, Charles thinks to himself wildly, searching frantically for Erik instead. He spots him nearby the platform but making no move to run back towards the door, even as one of the cracks opens up dangerously close to where he stands, his eyes scanning—looking for _him_ , Charles realizes, and that’s all he needs to come to a snap decision.

“Wade,” he says, turning back around, “get Erik and bring him here. Nightcrawler, go with him. I’m going to get this longboat running again so we can get out of here.”

“But how could I possibly leave you!” Wade laments as Charles lies down on the deck and scoots himself up underneath the control panel of the boat next to the wheel. Underneath is a mass of old, tangled wires, but the system is archaic enough as to where he should be able to—

He nearly hits his head when two hands grab him by the legs and drag him back out again, and Wade peers down at him pleadingly but Charles glares at him fiercely. “Go!”

“On second thought,” Wade says, letting go of him, “it’s very easy to leave you here when you look at me like that.” Hovering at his shoulder, Nightcrawler chitters at Wade impatiently.

Charles pushes himself back under the panel, and there—he finds the two wires he’s looking for and quickly feels out along their length for their loose ends. He has no idea how old this boat is but it seems modern enough for this good old hot wiring to work, and he can only hope that the engine hasn’t rusted through completely.

He strips the already rotting insulation away from the wires with his teeth and touches the two ends of the wires together to make them spark, and feels an answering tremor of the engine. Relieved, he finds the main board and quickly rips out two of the other wires that he thinks—he hopes—are for less necessary things like the cabin lights, and hooks his wires in, immediately gratified when he feels the engine come back to life with a guttural wheeze.

Charles crawls back out from underneath the panel in time to see Wade climbing back over the side of the boat and reaching over to pull Erik up, Nightcrawler flying in circles above them. As soon as he’s on his feet Erik crosses the deck in three long strides to help Charles stand, grasping him by the biceps as if reassuring himself that Charles is actually there.

“I couldn’t find you,” he says in a low voice, gaze intent on Charles’ face, “I thought you’d fallen.”

“I’m right here,” Charles assures him, a spark of warmth jumping in his chest, “but what about the treasure?”

Erik shakes his head. “All the treasure of a thousand worlds still doesn’t add up to you.”

Charles flushes. “You’re just saying that because half your crew is dead and the other half abandoned you,” he protests, but the words sound flimsy even to his own ears. Erik cares for him, wholly and undeniably; even more than the treasure he’s spent years searching for.

The corners of Erik’s mouth twitch upwards but the real smile is in his eyes, regarding Charles with nearly unbearable fondness even as the whole world falls apart around them.

“First of all,” Wade says, popping up in between them so that they both take hasty steps backwards, “there are children here, and I know the provocative yet exhilarating mating dance of the Five-Horned Gorfinkle when I see it!”

“Are we sure that’s an actual animal,” says Erik flatly.

“It isn’t,” says Charles.

“Second of all,” Wade continues, “if my calculations are correct we have ten minutes before the planet goes KABOOM!”

That gets them moving again, Erik stepping up to take the wheel while Charles darts over to see about the sail. “It’s too rotten,” he calls once he sees the shredded remains of the solar cells.

“We have enough power to get by with just the thrusters to start with,” Erik says, spinning the wheel to maneuver the boat around as they slowly rise up to hover above the shifting ground. Nightcrawler settles on his shoulder, holding on tightly, and Charles is glad to see the little blue Morph reunited with his real master at last.

More plasma erupts out of the pipes with a roar that deafens Charles’ ears, and Erik lets out a curse as he’s forced to wrench the wheel to the side, the boat following with a stomach-turning lurch, in order to avoid one of the blasts that surely would have sliced them in two. Charles yelps, barely scrambling out the way of a heavy chest that slides across the deck with a loud scrape, grabbing onto the railing to steady himself.

They fly towards the doorway, weaving around bright outpourings of plasma like a raft avoiding boulders in the middle of rapids, and Charles has never gotten airsick in his entire life but now almost comes close, his stomach rolling nauseatingly as the old longboat jerks and pitches back and forth, Erik steering with no doubt every last ounce of skill he possesses to get them safely out. The planet is in chaos as its core ruptures, and Charles doubts the surface will be any better.

“ _I SEE TREES OF GREEN, RED ROSES TOO_ ,” Wade shouts in a deep, throaty voice at one of the deadly plasma waterfalls as they miss it by what feels like mere inches, “ _I SEE THEM BLOOM, FOR ME AND YOU_.”

“Hold on!” Erik calls, and the boat speeds up, engine gunning as they soar towards the huge triangle of light leading out to the surface, the path clear at last.

“ _AND I THINK TO MYSELF_ ,” Wade yells as the doorway gets closer and closer, “ _WHAT A WONDERFUL_ —”

A geyser of plasma erupts out of the ground directly beneath the longboat as they fly over, smashing into the hull and slicing through the old wood like a hot knife through butter. Charles screams as he’s sent flying through the air, thrown completely loose from the fracturing boat, and lands hard in a tall pile of gold coins, the wind knocked out of him.

He lies stunned where he is for a moment, his head is ringing slightly, a little dazed, but nothing feels broken when he shifts experimentally. He struggles to get up, both the vibrations in the ground and the slippery gold making the process difficult as his boots sink down into the coins with every motion he makes. Luckily he’s landed not far from the metal platform in front of the door so he heads for it, wading through all the remaining treasure while searching frantically for signs of Erik.

“Charles!” Erik calls, voice ragged with relief, and Charles’ gaze lands on Erik struggling towards the platform in the complete opposite direction he’d come from, Wade and Nightcrawler right behind him. They all meet in the middle, climbing up onto the platform in front of the door right as another fissure opens and swallows the rest of the gold.

“Come on,” Charles says, taking Erik’s hand, and together they run out the door, passing through the thin force field. They meet no resistance, staggering out into the fresh air on the planet’s surface and past the map’s projection of the galaxy that still rotates idly in place.

“Now what,” Erik pants, keeping his grip on Charles hand even as he leans over to squeeze the jointing of his robotic leg with a grimace. “They took the skiff, and it’s not like there’s any high ground we can get to.”

“Now _that_ ,” Charles says, pointing up into the sky with a grin.

“Ahoy, Charles!” Hank shouts as he brings the Klirodótima sailing down towards them, manning the wheel with only a small amount of trepidation on his face. Raven stands beside him, her torso wrapped tightly with bandages, pointing and gesturing wildly with one hand as she instructs him on how to bring the ship down alongside the cliff. “We came as fast as we could follow!”

“Climb aboard, Mr. Xavier!” she calls briskly once the ship is level with them, but her eyes narrow when she takes in Erik. “Step away from him immediately, Lehnsherr. I may have shown your crew mercy that they hardly deserved but as far as I’m concerned you don’t deserve a lick of it.”

“She took out all of the pirates on her own,” Hank adds, sounding like he’s still in awe, “it was incredible.”

“No,” Charles says, tugging Erik forward so that they leap onto the Klirodótima’s deck together, “he’s with me.”

“Nonsense,” Raven says dismissively to Hank, but she gives him a brief, warm smile, “you were quite helpful too.” Her gaze cuts back to Erik, doubtful and wary. It takes Charles a moment to remember that the last time she’d seen Erik, he’d been ordering his men to haul Charles off to his tent and has no doubt filled in unpleasant blanks. “If you’re sure, Mr. Xavier. I can tie him up in the brig just as I did his fellows if you’d like.”

Instead of replying to Raven, Erik looks to Charles, awaiting his decision.

“Positive,” Charles answers her, and gives a slight smile when he feels Erik squeeze his hand. “He’s here to help us get off this planet alive.”

With a loud, grinding screech of rusting metal on rusting metal, the surface of the planet begins to tear apart, just like the core. Great cracks fissure open, the fiery glow of lava radiating outwards from below with a blast of heat that Charles worries is hot enough to burn through the wood of the Klirodótima’s hull even at this distance, as Hank slowly brings the ship up.

“Carefully!” Raven barks as the ship lurches, and Hank scrabbles at the wheel. They soar low over the shifting and churning ground that resembles an actual tossing and turning sea instead of solid rock, picking up speed and slowly gaining altitude.

Lava erupts from the planet with enough explosive force to blow huge chunks of rock and metal sky-high, which fall back down in a deadly shower of falling projectiles, some as large as the ship itself. A piece of rock as large as a skiff whistles past over the ship and smashes straight through the mast of the Klirodótima’s third sail, and Charles hits the deck hard when Erik tackles him down out of the way of the splintering wood that falls with a horrible screech, smashing down with a crack that reverberates in his bones. The thick beam decimates one of the cannons, pieces scattering everywhere, and then Charles feels something else grind belowdecks, the thrusters stuttering as one of their power sources is completely cut off without warning.

“Thrusters down to thirty percent capacity!” Hank shouts, hanging onto the wheel for dear life as the Klirodótima lurches, the combination of her already garnered speed and the sudden loss of the vast majority of the driving force behind it making her creak dangerously as she slows.

“How is that possible, we still have two masts left!” Charles calls back, eyes wide.

Erik climbs off of him and pulls him back up to his feet. “We must have sustained more damage from escaping the black hole than we thought,” he says grimly, surveying the wreckage of the mast splayed across the deck.

“We only have two minutes and thirty-four seconds until the planet explodes!” Wade announces, scampering up the stairs to the quarterdeck to show Raven his timer. “That’s less time than it takes me to change my oil!”

“We’ll barely make it out of the atmosphere at this rate,” Hank cries, spinning the wheel to avoid another fountain of lava that bursts out of the planet’s rupturing crust, “and we certainly won’t be able to clear the explosive range!”

Charles swallows, leaning over the side of the railing to look down at the planet. What little ground that still remains and hasn’t been swallowed up by wide chasms is roiling, and where the ground is actually still he can see pressure building up within the planet like a tin can placed on hot coals, bulging upwards and ready to blow open at any second. Hank is right—they’re not going to make it.

“Wait a moment,” he murmurs, gaze catching on the doorway in the distance, still open wide to the planet’s core collapsing in on itself. “We have to turn around,” he says louder, so that Hank and Raven can hear him. He turns away from the railing and runs across the deck, dropping down onto his hands and knees to gather up some of debris from the crushed cannon. “There’s a portal back there! If we fly through it, it can get us out of here!”

“What?” Hank says in disbelief. “That portal opens up into a raging inferno!”

“Right now it does,” Charles shouts over his shoulder, even as he strains to rip off one of the metal panels from the side of the cannon, “but I can use the map to change that! I can open a different door, just trust me!” He gets the panel loose, and drags it over to the railing.

“Captain?” Hank asks uncertainly, looking to Raven for guidance but she seems equally hesitant—neither of them have seen how the doorway works.

“Listen to Charles!” Erik snaps at them vehemently, jogging over to help Charles drag the cannon’s engine over to the railing as well. “What do you need?”

“I need a way to attach all of these,” Charles says, motioning frantically between the scrap parts he’s collected, “so I can make a board. I’m going to have to fly ahead to the map if we want to have any kind of chance of making it through.”

“Hold on,” Erik says grimly, crouching down, “and stand back.” As Charles watches he twists off the end of his pointer finger on his robotic arm, and with a flick of his wrist the end lights up white-hot and bright with a mini-blow torch that he quickly sets to work with, soldering the engine onto the back of the panel with quick, efficient motions.

“You never told me your hand could do that,” Charles says accusingly as he averts his eyes from the bright, flying sparks.

“Are we seriously going to have this conversation right now?” Erik asks dryly, but when Charles looks back again once it’s safe, he’s grinning slightly, and Charles smiles a little back.

Together they heave the makeshift board up onto the side of the ship’s railing, Erik holding it steady while Charles hops up on top. There are enough divots in the warped panel that he can dig his boots into in order to keep himself on the board and not fall off, and he kicks back on the plasma-generator-turned-engine, revving it once or twice. It responds with a snarl, sputtering to life, and hopefully the part isn’t too damaged and will be powerful enough to keep him in the air.

“Listen,” he says intently, twisting around to look down at Erik, “whatever happens, just keep the ship headed straight for the door.”

Erik keeps one hand on the board but the other he lifts to wrap around Charles’ ankle, the closest part of Charles that he can reach. “Charles—”

“FORTY-TWO SECONDS!” Wade shouts.

Charles opens his mouth to say—something, he doesn’t know—before he thinks better of it and shakes his head, tearing his gaze away from Erik’s and Erik lets go of his ankle just in time as Charles gives the engine a good kick, zooming forward off the side of the ship and out into empty, open air.

There’s a split second where he starts to drop, with the familiar sensation of his stomach lodging itself somewhere in the vicinity of his throat during that first, initial lurch, but then he kicks the engine harder, shooting out a jet of flames in a bright stream behind him and he’s flying, the panel catching air and keeping him afloat.

Charles bends his knees and leans forward, flipping around in midair and racing back towards the portal. It’s just like solar surfing, he tells himself grimly, heart beating loud and fast on what feels like pure adrenaline as he tries to fall into sync with the motions of the board, just no sail.

The planet is coming apart in interest now, huge blocks of machinery and rock floating upwards as magma boils beneath fiercely enough to push chunks of the planet up to bypass the planet’s failing gravity. Charles flings his arms out wide to keep his balance as one rock nearly buffets him, and then tucks his arms in tight as skirts around the obstacles, darting in between them through any gaps he can find, unable to look back to check and see if the Klirodótima is following him. He’ll just have to assume.

He weaves through more enormous floating blocks, flipping upside down in a wild spin at one point in order to make one of the tiny gaps, grabbing onto the edge of his board and letting out a half-exhilarated, half-terrified yell. He rights himself, only a little wobbly as he kicks back on the engine for an added burst of speed and power, shooting over the fracturing planet towards the wide-open doorway that still shows nothing but a massive explosion going off down in the core.

His engine chokes and dies.

“No!” Charles shouts reflexively as he begins to fall, still standing on the board as it spirals beneath him, making the world spin around and around in a dizzying blur. He kicks back on the engine desperately, willing it to spark up again, but it remains silent and dead as he twirls downwards helplessly into one of the angry open cracks in the planet’s crust, towards the bubbling magma chamber that froths below.

He can’t die like this. They’re so close now to escape, and Hank, Raven, Nightcrawler, Wade, _Erik_ —they’re all counting on him, because if he doesn’t make it to the doorway in time they’ll all be doomed. Gritting his teeth, Charles controls his board’s spiral and flips himself around, swinging himself closer to the side of the chasm and scraping the engine against the rocky wall as he continues to plunge downwards.

“Come on, come on,” Charles says even though he can’t even hear himself over the rumbling of the planet and the loud scrape of metal on rock, sparks flying as the engine glows red hot, and it’s got to be enough friction, it’s got to be enough—

The engine roars back to life, another jet of flames bursting out of the back and propelling Charles out and away from the wall and he lets out a wild, triumphant cry. He angles himself upwards, blasting straight up towards the patch of sky above, his board almost completely vertical, and he’s nearly to the top of the chasm when the Klirodótima soars past overhead, the bottom of her hull flashing past and barreling towards the doorway even though Charles hasn’t reached the map yet.

He snaps the board down to perfectly horizontal again once he’s clear of the trench’s walls, stomping on the engine and flying so fast that the entire world is a blur around him, but that doesn’t matter because the only thing that does is the doorway, and the tiny green projection of the galaxy hovering down in front of it. Charles zips past the length of the Klirodótima, drawing even with her bow, urging his board faster and faster and they must nearly be out of time now but there’s no way he’s going to outrace the ship completely. He weaves around one last flying projectile, kicking his board up and flipping upside down again to clear the rock as it rises and he reaches out as far as he can towards the green light and he’s _almost there_ —

His fingers brush against the tiny glowing projection of Montressor, and Charles closes his eyes as he blows past the map in a split second, through the open door.

Cold air hits his face as he flies into open space, a huge eruption going off behind him and blasting him forward with the force of it, knocking him head over heels, doing several successive front flips in a row. He opens his eyes when he rights himself to take in the sight of Crescentia, and then the Klirodótima sailing on beside him, the doorway flickering shut behind them as the map and Treasure Planet are utterly destroyed as the planet explodes but Charles hardly cares because he did it. They made it.

He lets out a whoop, doing a loop in the air out of sheer joy as he circles once around the ship, Hank, Raven, Wade, and Nightcrawler all cheering below, ecstatic and relieved to have made it out alive. Charles coasts for a moment, holding his arms out wide and taking in a deep breath of air, his whole body thrumming with joy and triumph, high on the rush of the most dangerously awesome surfing that he’s ever done in his entire life.

Charles turns and swoops in low over the deck, jumping off his board as the engine dies for good this time and Erik is there to catch him, holding out both arms for Charles to fall into readily, swinging him around once with a small, delighted laugh before setting him down on his feet gently, though he doesn’t let go.

“Charles—”

“I know,” Charles interrupts him, and then leans up to kiss him.

Erik pauses for only a second, more out of surprise than any true hesitance, and then he’s kissing Charles back, one hand moving up to curl into Charles’ hair as he deepens the kiss. Charles parts his lips and presses closer, wrapping his arms around the back of Erik’s neck and holding on tightly. Erik kisses him like he’s been hungry for it, like he wants to devour Charles whole, and it’d be overwhelming if Charles didn’t feel the same.

“You were brilliant, just now,” Erik murmurs when they break apart enough to speak, resting their foreheads against one another and sharing breaths, in and out, in and out. “Charles, I— _brilliant_.”

“You might have mentioned that sometime before,” Charles answers, unable to keep from smiling, soft and private between just the two of them, “but you can stand to mention it a few more times, I think.”

Erik huffs out a laugh, rolling his eyes, and kisses him again, though Charles has his suspicions that it’s more to shut him up than anything else.

“ _I BELIEVE I CAN FLY_!” Wade sings at the top of his lungs, hanging over the side of the quarterdeck while Nightcrawler turns himself into mini fireworks that burst into bright colors, zooming around the android and cackling with glee. “ _I BELIEVE I CAN TOUCH THE SKY_!”

“How much do you think we’d get, selling him for scrap metal?” Erik asks as they part reluctantly, slowly letting go.

“Tempting,” Charles admits, amused, “but no, we’re not selling him for scrap metal.”

“I doubt anyone has use for that color red anyway.”

“Charles!” Hank nearly trips on his way down the stairs, and Erik slips back and away as the astrophysicist runs over to hug Charles tightly while Raven follows at a more sedate pace. “That was incredible!”

“Unorthodox,” Raven admits, coming to a stop, but she’s smiling, golden eyes proud as she regards him, “but ludicrously effective. Well _done_ , Mr. Xavier.”

Charles feels himself flush as he extracts himself from Hank’s enthusiastic grip. “Thank you, ma’am. I just wanted to get us all out of there alive.”

“I’d be perfectly willing to recommend your name to the Interstellar Academy,” she continues, and Charles looks up so fast that his neck protests, “they could use a man like you in their ranks.”

“Would you?” Charles blurts before he can stop himself. The Interstellar Academy has always been a far-off dream, something he’d think about idly on long nights stuck in the kitchen at the inn, but he’d never considered it seriously, knowing Kurt would never want to hear about it. But now that he knows his mother would undoubtedly support him, and with Raven’s recommendation, which will only bolster his chances of being accepted…

He could do it. In a few short years he could be the captain of his own ship, free to sail across the galaxy, exploring worlds both known and unknown, traveling the stars.

Charles tries to look back to catch Erik’s eye, brow wrinkling in confusion when Erik is nowhere to be seen. Neither Hank nor Raven seem to notice, already fallen into a rapid-fire debate about the different tracks of courses the Academy offers, so neither do they notice when Charles slips away, heading down to the place he knows where he’ll find Erik.

“ _I THINK ABOUT IT EVERY NIGHT AND DAY_ ,” Wade continues to serenade, hopping up on top of the control panel to pose dramatically as he sings, “ _SPREAD MY WINGS AND FLY AWAY_!”

Shaking his head, Charles descends down the stairs into the ship’s main hold, heading for the loading bay. Nightcrawler flies after him, nuzzling Charles’ cheek with a squeak before streaking ahead, his giggle echoing off the walls. It doesn’t take them long to make their way down through the ship to find where Erik has gone.

“So after all that, you’re just going to leave without a word?” Charles asks when he comes to a stop in the doorway to the bay, folding his arms and leaning against the frame. The notion of Erik leaving without even saying goodbye stings a little, but Charles isn’t hurt, not exactly; not when he thinks he can guess why Erik slipped away so quietly.

Erik doesn’t jump at the sound of his voice but he does go still for a moment, his back to Charles where he stands facing the last remaining skiff hanging low from the ceiling. Nightcrawler flits over to him, looping around him twice before rubbing happily against Erik’s fingers with a purr when Erik lifts a hand for him.

“As soon as we dock in Crescentia, our esteemed captain is going to drag everyone she classifies as a pirate to the nearest detainment facility to be tried and shipped off to jail,” Erik says, turning around to face Charles. It’s hard to see his expression in the dim light. “I plan on being far away before that happens.”

“You say that as if I’d let her,” Charles scoffs, but he can’t keep the small waver out of his voice at the end as he realizes the truth of the matter.

Erik has to go.

“I very much doubt you could stop her,” Erik says, but he sounds wry now, fondly amused. He pauses, taking a breath. “But since you did follow me down here, I would stay and face trial, if you asked it.”

“You’ll be found guilty,” Charles says softly. He straightens, no longer leaning against the doorframe, and his arms hang limply at his sides. “They’d send you straight to jail.”

“I know,” Erik answers, calm. “But if you asked, I would go.”

“Why?” Charles demands, not understanding. “What purpose would that—”

“Because while I care very little for anyone else’s opinion, I care about yours,” Erik interrupts him evenly, “and if my going to face judgement and justice makes you believe that I am a good man, then I would be content.” He smiles, small and brief. “Actions speak louder than words.”

Charles recognizes his own words parrotted back to him, said in cold anger to Erik only yesterday. This time, however, he merely shakes his head, blinking rapidly as he feels embarrassing moisture building up in his eyes. “You stupid man,” he says, crossing over to the control panel and pulling back the lever to open the bay doors beneath the skiff, “I already believe that. You’ve proven it to me already.”

The bay doors open slowly, throwing a wash of color and light into the hold as Montressor’s orbit path takes the planet past its star, allowing its radiating light to fall across the ship. It’s easy to see Erik now, and his smile, warm and fitting well on his already handsome face as he regards Charles with pure and open fondness, erasing years off his face and making Charles’ knees go a little weak. He crosses over to Erik without hesitating this time when Erik lifts a hand, just as he had outside of Wade’s house on Treasure Planet, grasping it and allowing himself to be pulled forward into a strong embrace, tilting his head up for a kiss.

 

 

Erik kisses him soft and unhurried this time, slow and sweet. Charles closes his eyes and loses himself to Erik’s lips on his, Erik’s tongue sliding gently into his mouth around the soft noise Charles makes. Erik’s broad, sturdy hands hold him at his back, and Charles doesn’t want the kiss to end, not even breaking away when he hears Nightcrawler cooing at them from overhead.

“I would ask you to come with me,” Erik says when they do finally part, Charles resting his cheek on Erik’s shoulder while Erik strokes his back, rocking together with the gentle rolling of the ship. “I _want_ you to come with me. But you should take Raven’s offer and go to the Academy.”

Charles doesn’t answer at first, swallowing the knee-jerk reaction of immediately swearing that he wants to go with Erik too. He does. Or perhaps he would have, if Erik had asked him before they’d reached Treasure Planet. He would have said yes without a second thought. But now…

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Erik. Erik has broken his heart and put it back together, and Charles feels with great confidence that the mending is for good even though they still have a lot to talk about, but the Academy is something he’s dreamed about for years. He can’t give it up now, not when it’s finally within reach, even for Erik’s sake.

And Erik’s not asking him to, isn’t drawing a hard line of yes or no. If Charles didn’t already feel the way he does about Erik now, well. It makes him fall a little all over again.

“I wish I didn’t have to choose,” he says, “I wish you could come with me.”

He feels rather than sees Erik shake his head. “According to most records, I’m dead and have been for years. That’s suspicious enough on its own. And then I have the funny little happenstance of being a pirate.” He chuckles, his chest vibrating. “The Academy won’t want that sort of riff-raff attending their courses.”

“Where will you go, then?” Charles asks, turning his head and resting his other cheek on Erik’s shoulder so that he can look up at him, nose inches from the sharp line of Erik’s throat.

“Who knows,” Erik says lightly, “my crew are either gone or under Captain Darkholme’s custody, so I’m free. I should probably lay low for awhile, in case she decides to give chase.” He pauses thoughtfully, musing. “I’ll need employment, since I’m finished with plundering and treasure hunting. Maybe I’ll go into smuggling.”

Charles swats his other shoulder. “That’s nearly the same as pirating! You said you wanted to walk away from the life!”

Erik grins at him, slight and teasing. “Depends on the cargo, really. And I don’t intend to have a crew. I can run a one-man job.”

“Bloody pirate,” Charles mutters, and Erik laughs, full and real, and Charles wants to keep his scowl but ends up smiling anyway. He lifts his head, straightening so he can face Erik fully even while remaining pressed close in Erik’s hold. “Don’t go far. Please.”

Erik nods, oddly solemn as he presses forward for one more kiss, a fleeting brush of lips. “This is not goodbye.”

“Good,” Charles whispers, “I don’t want it to be.”

Erik smiles, warm and affectionate. “You’re going to be great at the Academy,” he says, calm and confident as ever, “you already glow brighter than a solar flare.”

Charles huffs out a laugh, averting his gaze even as he flushes. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He feels like he’s glowing, just from the praise alone.

“I’m not,” Erik says, gently tilting Charles’ chin up with deft fingers. His regard is like sunlight, filling Charles’ solar sails and lifting him up, bringing him into the sky, much like coming home. “There’s something special about you, Charles. I knew it the very first time I saw you.” He smiles again, slow and perfect. “You’re going to rattle the stars, _schatz_.”

Charles chooses to hide the small amount of tears that finally do leak out of the corners of his eyes by kissing Erik again, and again, and again.

The bay doors are all the way open and have been for some time now, so all that’s left is to lower the skiff down so that the little boat hangs out of the belly of the ship. Charles helps, taking the line at the bow while Erik takes the stern, Nightcrawler orbiting around them both like a comet. Erik hops down into the skiff, landing on his feet with a loud _thunk_ and maintaining his balance even as it rocks back and forth like a swing. Charles crouches down on the edge of the opening in the ship’s floor and tries to summon up a smile, not quite sure that he entirely succeeds.

Nightcrawler flies up to him and abruptly bursts into tears, turning into a wet puddle of water in midair that Charles catches with cupped hands. “Don’t cry, Nightcrawler,” Charles tells him, even as his own heart gives a small pang at saying goodbye to the little Morph. He strokes Nightcrawler gently as he reforms into a blue blob again. “I’ll see you soon, right?”

“ _See you soon_ ,” Nightcrawler repeats back to him in a shaky voice, eyes still wide and teary, before he jumps up to lick Charles’ face and then flits back down to Erik.

Erik glances between Nightcrawler and Charles, appraising and thoughtful. “I have an important mission for you, squirt,” he says, flicking his fingers at the Morph and nodding up at Charles, “keep an eye on him for me. Make sure he does all his homework. Bite anyone who tries to touch.”

“ _Really_ ,” Charles says flatly, but he laughs wetly as Nightcrawler chirps excitedly, drawing himself up tall and proud and giving Erik a salute before rubbing against his cheek and zooming back up to Charles, settling on top of his head with a happy purr.

Erik’s still looking up at him, eyes half-lidded and content, and Charles feels his throat constrict.

“I’m sorry the treasure didn’t work out,” he says, suddenly awkward for no reason whatsoever and floundering for words. “We probably should have expected there to be booby traps.”

Erik lets his head fall back lazily, gazing up at him with an amused expression. “Not all treasure is gold and jewels, _schatz_.”

Charles wrinkles his nose suspiciously. “You keep calling me that, what does it mean?”

Instead of answering Erik digs into his pocket and tosses up a small leather pouch that clinks when Charles catches it, sounding very much like all the gold coins as they’d tumbled down into the chasms of magma. “For the inn,” Erik says, tossing Charles one last, private smile, and then he cuts the skiff loose from the lines, dropping down away from the ship and unfurling the sail, solar cells lighting up immediately as they catch on starlight, bright and dazzling.

Erik sinks down beside the tiller, lifting a hand in a wave, and he guides the skiff around in a wide arc before he’s gone, sailing off into the cosmos with the glimmer of stars all around him to light the way, free to choose his own bearing at last.

Charles watches him go for as long as he can make out the tiny skiff, reaching up to pat Nightcrawler and still holding the bag of gold treasure. He isn’t sad, not with the future splayed out before him like a star chart, bright and full of endless possibilities. He isn’t sad, because this isn’t a goodbye or an ending.

It’s a beginning— _their_ beginning.


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to **GQD** / **garnetquyen** for such a fun collaboration! It's been a pleasure to work with you and your beautiful art brought this fic to life. Here's to many more!  <3
> 
> View a masterpost of all the art from Chapters 8-11 [here](http://garnetquyen.tumblr.com/post/100914877370/to-rattle-the-stars-art-master-post-part-3-end)!

 

X

 

“Captain, ship spotted off the starboard side—”

“They’re running!”

“All hands to stations!”

“ _Incoming!_ ”

A blast of plasma cannon fire glances across the hull, rocking the ship as the smell of singed wood fills the air. Thundering footsteps echo across the deck as the crew runs to their battle stations, a hive of activity as the other ship, a smaller, dingier vessel, lights up her thrusters, a jet of blue flames spurting out behind her stern as she takes off.

“Only fourteen percent hull damaged sustained!”

“Cannons warmed up, ready to fire on command!”

“Sir, your orders?”

Captain Charles Xavier stands just behind the helmsman on the quarterdeck of the RLS Aphthoria, arms folded neatly behind his back and sharp blue gaze trained unblinkingly on the running ship ahead. From graduate with top honors at the Interstellar Academy after two years, serving a year each as Second Officer and First Officer respectively, at 24 he’s the youngest captain in the entire Fleet—and there are very few who would dare protest his rank.

“I’m wondering whether they haven’t heard of the Aphthoria,” Charles muses idly, watching the rapidly diminishing ship as she gets further and further away, “or if they just don’t realize it’s us.”

The helmsman spits to one side derisively. “Probably don’t believe the hearsay, Captain. Fools.”

“I don’t always believe the hearsay either, Mr. Howlett,” Charles answers calmly, glancing down briefly to ensure the man’s spit hasn’t landed on his shining black boots, which is far more productive than trying to get the helmsman to cut the habit. Knowing how to pick your battles—Charles is well-versed in that particular lesson. “I _am_ almost offended, though, if that’s the case. One would imagine by now that we’ve proven most of the hearsay true, don’t you think?”

“ _Think! Think! Think!_ ” Nightcrawler swoops down from the rigging, making a face and gnashing little fanged teeth in the direction of the other ship before settling above Charles’ shoulder, hovering over his crisp uniform jacket.

Charles smiles at him, and then tilts his head in the direction of his First Officer standing by for orders. “Run them down, Mr. Summers.”

“With pleasure, sir.” Scott strides forward so that he stands prominently beside Logan at the wheel, taking in a breath before raising his voice to a shout. “Prepare for pursuit, employ full sails! Thrusters on maximum, full speed ahead!”

Charles has long since perfected the art of bracing himself even while appearing as if he isn’t, standing tall and straight as the engines begin to hum, vibrations running up beneath the deck while flashes of light lance down each of the three masts, sending collected power from the solar cells to the engine room. The Aphthoria takes off with a roar, blasting forward in hot pursuit of her fleeing quarry.

The Aphthoria is not only captained by the youngest captain in the fleet but is also the fastest ship in the fleet, her speed yet to be matched by any other vessel, friend or foe. Charles loves the initial takeoff, that first burst of speed and power that presses air backwards in his lungs and reminds him of when solar surfing was his only way into the skies, heart lifting as if it too could fly, light and free.

They swiftly gain on the smaller ship, eating up the distance between them in seconds, drawing closer and closer. The other ship doesn’t stand a chance, and even with her thrusters burning on full the Aphthoria looms closer, cutting through empty space and riding the invisible gravity lines with almost careless ease.

Logan lets out an oath when the smaller ship suddenly swerves off to the side, pulling hard to starboard and zipping into the asteroid belt that they’ve been skirting, weaving between deadly chunks of floating rock.

Even Charles raises an eyebrow at this particular tactical move. “They’re mad,” he remarks idly, and Scott is already turning around to face him with a look of trepidation so he smiles, brief but amused. “You know what to do, Mr. Howlett.”

“Sir,” Scott says hesitantly as Logan lets out a loud laugh, pulling a sharp starboard, “I don’t think—”

“Please advise the crew to hold on,” Charles says cheerfully, putting one hand out to grip the railing. “Good man.”

Scott looks like he wants to protest more, or maybe just sigh, but he dutifully faces forward again as the Aphthoria approaches the asteroid belt. “Brace yourselves for complex maneuvering!”

“ _Yeeeeehaaaaaw!_ ” Nightcrawler shrieks in his tinny little voice as they enter the belt, Logan’s hands flying all over the wheel as he steers them up and around the dangerous obstacles while the Aphthoria continues at her full speed.

Charles finds that he’s grinning, adrenaline rushing with exhilaration at both the thrill of the chase and the recklessness of their near-misses, giant rocks passing in blurs as the ship lurches back and forth. He trusts Logan to steer them true, so he doesn’t worry as they dive through the space debris, following the twisting, turning path of the smaller ship ahead that reminds him of a side panel of a plasma cannon and a stuttering engine from only a few short years ago.

Logan is cursing freely as he handles the wheel, which is his only mark of truly enjoying himself, and no matter how quickly the little ship changes direction or dodges behind asteroids, she can’t shake Logan, who pulls off the exact same feats with their larger, bulkier ship and stays right on her tail.

“Asteroid off the bow!” Scott shouts as they come up on a massive, slowly-spinning rock that’s three times the size of the Aphthoria. Ahead of them the smaller ship keeps streaking towards it, flying at it straight-on. “They’re going to crash!”

“Negative,” Charles shouts back over the sound of the wind, leaning forward in anticipation, “they’re trying to fake us out! Mr. Howlett, steady on course! Be prepared to pull up on my mark!”

“Aye, Captain,” Logan answers, keeping the Aphthoria straight on her course.

“Sir,” Scott insists as they draw closer and closer to the asteroid, neither ship showing signs of wavering, “we really—”

“Steady,” Charles orders, eyes focused on the little ship ahead, trained on the dual white-hot jets of plasma flames emitting out from her stern. “Steady...steady... _now_!”

Logan yanks back on the upthrust levers, and Nightcrawler lets out another wild whoop as the Aphthoria angles upward, her bow pointing nearly straight up and perpendicular to their previous vector, soaring upwards and skimming over the rock face of the asteroid by mere feet. Charles has to hold onto the railing with both hands now to keep from falling completely backwards as the ship tilts at such a sharp angle, the cost of coasting up and over the asteroid at the last possible second.

Logan brings the ship level again once they’ve cleared the top of the rock, bringing their target back into view again. The other ship too has made it up and over, though just barely—she must have clipped the rock while trying to avoid smashing into it, and is definitely limping now as she struggles to stay ahead.

“Gentlemen, I believe this chase is over,” Charles says as he straightens, absently pulling down on his jacket so that it rests straight and fitted across his shoulders. “Bring her in. Port side, Mr. Howlett, and Mr. Scott, only two cannon fires should do it.”

 

 

“Come on, Captain,” Logan says with a feral grin even as he moves to obey, turning the wheel so that the Aphthoria will come up on their target’s port side as they draw even, “it’s your last day before shore leave, don’t you want to go out with a bang?”

“No, I want to be able to actually start my leave as soon as we make dock,” Charles answers with a small laugh, “and the paperwork for blowing a ship out of the sky is infinitely longer.” The Aphthoria is neck-and-neck with the other ship now, and Charles gives Scott a nod. “Fire at will, Mr. Summers.”

“Cannon fire on my mark!” Scott shouts down to the crew below. “Two blasts in three! Two! One! _Fire_!”

The Aphthoria’s twin cannons fire in unison, neon green plasma blowing holes in both the side of the other ship and through her single mast, which splinters with a loud snap and sends her sail crashing down into her deck. Logan eases off on the Aphthoria’s speed, keeping her even with the other ship as it’s forced to slow down, her thrusters not powerful enough to keep going for long without her sail there to collect energy.

“Board her, secure any hostiles,” Charles says as the two ships glide to a halt, or as much as a halt anything can come to in open space, sailing alongside each other at equal speed, “you know the drill. No casualties, detainment only.”

“Do you ever ask for casualties?” Logan says with a snort, running a few checks on the status of their own engines as the thrusters power down and Scott descends from the quarterdeck to relay and carry out Charles’ orders.

“No,” Charles says firmly, scratching Nightcrawler beneath the chin as he watches his men leap from the Aphthoria to the deck of the other ship, spreading out to search for anyone aboard, “they’re obviously guilty of something if they fired at us and tried to escape, but whatever it is, they can stand fair trial for it back home.”

“Am I really supposed to believe that you once sailed with pirates?” Logan asks skeptically, bushy eyebrows raised.

Charles gives a short laugh, shaking his head. “They told all sorts of stories about us back at the Academy, didn’t they, Nightcrawler?”

The little Morph snickers, changing into a mini pirate captain, complete with an eyepatch, peg leg, and tiny hooked hand that he brandishes at Logan. “ _Argh! Argh!_ ”

“Eight men detained, Captain!” Scott calls over from the other ship. “Smugglers by the looks of things.”

Charles looks up sharply. “Line them up,” he answers after a half-second’s delay, walking over to the stairs, “and round up all their cargo, too.”

“Aye, Captain.”

By the time Charles has descended down to the Aphthoria’s main deck, his men have set up a small gangway crossing between the two ships, so there’s no need for him to make the jump. He walks across it swiftly with Nightcrawler trailing him, straight-backed and composed. Scott has all eight of the captured smugglers lined up on the other ship’s deck, hands tied behind their backs and guarded by several of Charles’ own crew. They stare at Charles stoically as he approaches and after a brief glance across each of their faces, Charles allows himself to let out a silent breath in relief—none of them are familiar.

He comes to a stop beside Scott. “None of them will answer any questions,” his first officer reports, one hand resting idly on the plasma pistol at his hip, “not that we’ve asked much.”

“Good thing it’s not our job to ensure that they do,” Charles answers, “that’s for the constable to worry about.” He surveys the silent and grim-faced men, who still stare back at him expressionlessly. Depending on what they’re smuggling, their sentences may not be so long or harsh. “Take them down to the brig. We’ll drop them off when you all drop me off.”

“No wonder you’re more reckless than usual today,” Scott says as the smugglers are led across the gangway and onto the Aphthoria, “you always get restless when your shore leave is soon.”

“Everything was perfectly under control,” Charles answers calmly, but he grins a little as Nightcrawler hovers behind his serious first officer, taking on his form and making ridiculous faces, “but yes, I love sailing and I wouldn’t trade the career for anything, but I’ve been out for four months now. I miss my solar surfer.”

“Of course your hobby is solar surfing,” Scott says, dry as dust, and Nightcrawler sticks out his tongue right at the back of Scott’s head.

“You could do to stand for a little more excitement in your life,” Charles tells him pointedly, and Scott ducks his head a little in acknowledgement. Charles turns to head back onto the Aphthoria as well, calling over his shoulder, “Get their cargo sorted quickly, Mr. Summers, I hear they’re having excellent updrafts on Montressor today.”

 

X

 

The sun is setting on Crescentia as the moon-shaped spaceport orbits around Montressor by the time the Aphthoria reaches her dock, sliding neatly into the berth without bumping the sides once. Charles has been packed since the night before so his departure is a short affair. All it takes is for him to stop by his quarters one last time, slinging his small duffle bag over one shoulder, and after bidding farewell to Scott, Logan, and a few other various members of the crew that he’s friendly with he makes his way down the gangway onto the dock, Nightcrawler flying in wide circles over his head in the form of a gullray.

“Captain Xavier,” his relief greets him at the bottom, shaking his hand. “Had a good run?”

“As ever, Captain Munroe,” Charles says, returning the handshake. “There are a few smugglers locked down in the brig to make life exciting for you. Just picked them up on our way back by chance.”

Ororo grins. “You can never have a boring, regular ride, can you?”

“Never,” Charles assures her, and tips her a cheery nod. “See you in four months.”

Crescentia is the same as ever, unchanged from the very first time he walked down its busy wharves. Even with the onset of night the port is still bustling, full of travelers and spacers and all manner of people and aliens coming and going in every direction as they carry out their business. The only thing that _is_ different is that people pay more attention to him now, clearing out of his path as he walks, most spacers giving him a polite nod in recognition of his uniform and the rank he wears on either shoulder; a far cry from being jostled around and flat-out ignored when he’d been fresh off of Montressor in his dusty jacket and trousers.

It’s good to be back, he thinks as he enters the market district, leaving the long row of docked ships behind. It’s not a sentiment he ever imagined having towards Montressor, but it’s always good to be back at first, to relax from the daily grind of ship life. By the end of his leave, however, Charles always finds himself ready to go again, impatient and eager to answer the alluring call of the sky and return to wild, open space.

“What do you think, buddy?” Charles asks Nightcrawler, who darts around to peer at all the goods stalls as they pass but never strays too far, always returning to hover at Charles’ shoulder. “We should stop by the inn for a couple days, don’t you think? Wade will be happy to see us.”

Nightcrawler turns into a mini version of the deranged android still currently employed in the kitchens of the Marko Inn, chanting, “ _Tacos! Tacos! Tacos!_ ”

Charles bats at him with a laugh, shaking his head. The inn had been completely rebuilt four years ago, the simple fundings of a small bag of gold coins going a long way to see the project done. He tries to stop by at least once during his shore leave, mostly to visit his mother and Wade, only sometimes exchanging a stilted, awkward word or two with Kurt. Visiting Hank and Raven at Hank’s estate up the road from the inn is another frequent stop, and Charles always goes prepared with a few trinkets to gift to their four boisterous children, that he makes sure to pick up along his travels. It’s good to see his family and his friends, but it’s not the only reason he enjoys his small stretch of time at home.

Charles skirts past a large crowd in front of one of the food stalls, turning sideways to edge along the grimy building wall. It’s dinnertime, and walking through the open market is currently more akin to a fish attempting to swim upstream, he thinks ruefully, snatching Nightcrawler out of the air with one hand when the Morph snaps his teeth at someone who unknowingly bumps into Charles on accident.

“Easy,” Charles warns him, though not without a certain degree of fondness, jiggling him within the confines of his fingers for a moment before releasing him. Nightcrawler cheeps, abashed, but otherwise flits ahead again, the galaxy’s smallest watchdog.

A hand darts out of the nearest open alleyway, grabbing Charles by the arm and tugging him off the street before he can think to resist. He pivots with what little balance he has left, hooking an automatic punch towards his assailant with his free arm but his fist is caught before the blow even lands, and then warm, familiar lips are pressed over his.

Charles relaxes immediately, his fist uncurling and his lips parting, tilting his head back to give better access. The hand on his arm slides up along his shoulder to fist in his hair even as Charles feels himself being walked backwards, duffle bag plucked off his shoulder and dropped carelessly to the ground as his back hits the wall lightly, a firm body pressed up against his front.

“And what, please enlighten me, is wrong with just saying hello?” Charles asks, slightly breathless, once the tongue that had previously been tracing along the inside of his mouth slides out, allowing him to actually focus on the man casually pinning him in place.

“Hello,” Erik says, so supremely satisfied with himself that it would be annoying if Charles weren’t so happy to see him.

“Hi,” Charles says, leaning up to kiss him again. He groans a little into Erik’s mouth when he feels the unyielding firmness of Erik’s robotic leg slip between his own, slotting his knee right beneath Charles’ crotch. “Really, Erik, we’re in a dirty alleyway, you’re going to ruin my uniform.”

“Have I ever mentioned how attractive you are in your uniform,” Erik says silkily, casually sliding his knee up a little further to press against the growing hardness in Charles’ trousers. “ _Captain_ Charles Xavier. If only they could see you now.”

“Shut up,” Charles snaps, even while he shivers, rocking his hips forward somewhat shamelessly, he’ll admit, for an esteemed captain of the interstellar fleet. “This is why I asked you to wait at home. You’re insatiable.”

“ _You’re_ insatiable,” Erik answers, flashing his teeth in a quick grin. He eases back, withdrawing his leg but otherwise keeps his grip on Charles, one hand in his hair while the other rests on his hip. “Did you honestly expect me to wait at home while you took your sweet time in arriving, off socializing with someone like Wade?”

“And Hank, and Raven, and my _mother_ ,” Charles points out. He’s able to maintain seriousness for all of two seconds longer before he laughs, wrapping his arms around Erik. “It’s good to see you. Even though it’s only been three weeks this time.” They’d had a night together in the Hylian spaceport, when the Aphthoria had stopped in for a supply pickup.

“Any amount of time is still long,” Erik says simply, holding him back.

Charles nods. The longest he and Erik had spent apart had been his two years at the Academy, when he was bogged down with classes and the typical, trivial duties saved for all greenhorn spacers. After that, however, once Charles was officially graduated and shipped out, it was easier to see Erik, meeting covertly in various spaceports sprinkled throughout the galaxy whenever Charles’ ship was in town and Erik was nearby enough to make it, busy with his own smuggling enterprises. Now Charles’ shore leaves make things even easier to see Erik and spend more than just a few stolen hours’ worth of time together, allowing them long, blissful months instead.

He’s _happy_. He’s the captain of his own ship and he has Erik too. The only thing that could possibly be better is Erik joining the fleet and being assigned to Charles’ ship, but Charles has long since accepted the impossibility. He’ll take what he has over any other alternative.

“We picked up some smugglers on our way in today,” he says after a few moments of quiet, merely soaking up each other’s presence, “I was afraid at first that it was you.”

“As if I’d let a Fleet ship catch me,” Erik says, arrogant grin evident in his voice alone.

“I’d run you down into the ground, Lehnsherr,” Charles says coolly, but smiles again when he feels Erik’s chest vibrate with a chuckle.

“I don’t think I’d make much effort in trying to escape from you,” Erik answers lightly, “so you win by default alone.”

“I’ll win every time,” Charles says, ramping up the haughtiness in his voice just to make Erik growl. It works, just like it does every time.

Nightcrawler comes shrieking down the alleyway, having finally caught up to where Charles had abruptly disappeared to, zooming around Erik like an over-excited puppy. Charles laughs again as he lets go to allow Erik the space to greet the Morph, stooping slightly to pick up his duffle. The motion is awkward due to his still-interested cock that’s half-hard in his pants, but he doesn’t say anything, just watches with a small smile as Erik riles Nightcrawler up even more, play-fighting with him for a few moments before finally catching him to give him a good scratch.

“Come on,” Erik says finally once he’s released Nightcrawler again only to have the little Morph settle on top of his head. He lifts the duffle out of Charles’ hand and slings it over his own shoulder before offering Charles his hand. “I got us a room up here for the night.”

Charles makes a face as he accepts Erik’s hand, allowing himself to be led back out into the busy street. “Spaceport inns are so expensive, we should just catch the next shuttle headed down planetside and stay at Kurt’s.”

“I’m not fucking you in your mother’s inn,” Erik answers slyly, navigating them both through the crowd, “and anyway, you’re worth it, _schatz_.”

Charles takes a steadying breath, torn between an unfortunate mix of scandalized and aroused. “Well,” he says, in what he believes to be his best diplomatic voice, “if you put it like that.”

Erik gives his hand a squeeze, and otherwise keeps foraging through the mass of people.

The inn Erik has chosen is small and out of the way, not located directly on the main streets of the port. He leads Charles in past the front desk and common area, where a good amount of people have gathered for an evening meal, and up a small flight of rickety stairs. They pass down a long, narrow hall, heading straight to the door at the end, which Erik comes to a stop outside of, fishing a key out of his jacket pocket.

“This is your stop,” he says to Nightcrawler, brushing the Morph out of his hair. Nightcrawler grumbles but obeys, licking Erik’s cheek and winking at Charles before taking off back down the corridor, no doubt to go put on his best adorable act and beg for table scraps downstairs.

“You should take him with you some of the time,” Charles says as Erik unlocks the door with a scrape, “he misses you a lot.”

“I like him looking after you better,” Erik says, shouldering the door open and pulling Charles inside. The room is small and cozy, well-lit and reminds Charles, almost, of a bigger version of Erik’s steward’s cabin back on the Klirodótima.

“I don’t need a sitter,” Charles reminds him, “I never have and I never will.”

Erik laughs, dumping Charles’ duffle into a chair. “Haven’t heard that one in awhile.”

“It bears repeating, apparently.” Charles folds his arms and keeps them there, even when Erik steps up to him and runs his hands up and down Charles’ shoulders, feeling him out underneath his uniform jacket.

“Then maybe,” Erik says, leaning in close so that his lips brush against the shell of Charles’ ear with each word, “I just like having him stay with you to make sure everyone else knows you’re _mine_.”

There are a hundred different protests against this logic Charles could make, starting with the fact that no one even knows he’s seeing a smuggler, let alone that it’s Erik, but instead he shudders, the words going straight down to his cock which perks up again in interest, swelling in his pants. He unfolds his arms and grabs onto the front of Erik’s jacket, yanking Erik down into a kiss. This one is sloppy and wet, their teeth clicking together as they attack each other’s mouths with abandon, unable to resist each other as always.

“As much as I love a man in uniform,” Erik murmurs against his lips, clever fingers already at work on the buttons of Charles’ jacket and popping them open one by one, “this needs to come off.”

Charles doesn’t answer, too busy tugging on Erik’s worn, less-official jacket in a direct echo of the same sentiment. They make short work of peeling each other out of their clothes, all but experts at it by now—they’ve had time to learn each other, in the past five years. Charles tips his head back with a hum as Erik mouths at the side of his neck, wrapping the fingers of one hand around Erik’s thickening cock, jacking him lazily for a few moments as they stand naked together in the middle of the room, the heat of their bodies enough to keep them warm.

Erik’s hips twitch forward, fucking into Charles’ hand, his sticky precome smearing across Charles’ palm while Erik rests his forehead on Charles’ bare shoulder, looking down to watch his cock disappear in and out of the circle of Charles’ fingers. Charles lets go of him, and when Erik lifts his head to look at him he meets Erik’s gaze and holds it while he raises his hand and licks, the salty precome sharp and bitter on his tongue but not altogether unpleasant.

Erik makes a small noise as he watches, pupils blown wide. “Charles,” he says, and it’s secretly one of Charles’ favorite things when he renders Erik so turned on that he sounds helpless, watching Charles lap up the rest of his precome.

“I was led to believe that I’m getting laid tonight,” Charles says primly once he’s finished, trying his best to sound unruffled and collected but there’s only so long he can last like that, especially with the way Erik’s regarding him now. “So far I—”

Erik tackles him down onto the bed even as he cushions Charles’ fall, making sure he lands without hurting himself even as he pins Charles resolutely down. They kiss again, Erik licking his way back into Charles’ mouth as if he’s determined to taste himself there, and Charles would complain about territory marking except at the moment he couldn’t care less, spreading his legs beneath Erik and kissing him back hungrily.

“Where—?” Charles asks blankly when Erik abruptly withdraws entirely, the sudden absence of the warmth of his body over Charles’ making him shiver.

“Forgot,” Erik answers, already halfway across the room. Charles sits up to admire Erik’s bare ass when the pirate-turned-smuggler flips open his trunk and bends over to dig through it. “We need the oil unless you want me going in dry.” He shifts a few things around inside the trunk, cursing under his breath as it evidently doesn’t unearth the little bottle of oil that’s seen a lot of use and refills over the years.

In lieu of answering Charles climbs back up to his feet, padding silently on bare feet across the hardwood floor over to where Erik stands. He drapes himself across Erik’s back, standing up on the very tips of his toes so that he can press a kiss against the side of Erik’s neck, his hands sneaking down around Erik’s torso to run up and down his belly and chest.

“Found it,” Erik says after a small pause, and from his vantage point Charles can see the corner of his mouth curling upwards in a grin.

He feels the muscles in Erik’s back ripple, and that’s all the warning he gets before Erik straightens, sending Charles sliding off, his feet flat on the floor again. Erik turns around and starts walking Charles backwards, one hand pressed against his chest and pushing lightly, his gait slow and predatory as he advances. Charles goes with the motion, walking backwards until he bumps into the wall, his cock curving up against his stomach, hard and leaking.

“The bed’s over there,” he says, nodding to the opposite side of the room.

Erik smirks, uncorking the bottle with his robotic hand and upending it for a moment, letting the slick inside drizzle out onto his fingers. “I know. Spread your legs.”

Charles widens his stance as Erik sets the bottle down, and his breath hitches when Erik hikes up one of his legs at the knee, leaving Charles scrabbling to grip Erik’s shoulders as he’s left to balance on one leg. Erik reaches down to Charles’ hole, metal finger tracing around the rim of his entrance before dipping inside.

“ _Ngh_ ,” Charles says articulately, head thumping back against the wall as Erik pushes in deeper, stretching him open. Erik’s metal finger is the same length and width of a normal human finger, but the steel is less yielding than flesh and bone, making it feel more like Erik is fucking him with a toy than his fingers.

“Hope we don’t have any neighbors,” Erik says, sliding another finger up inside Charles, thrusting them in and out of Charles’ hole at a steady, even pace. Both of Charles’ legs twitch, the one Erik holds up bent at the knee kicks out slightly while the one he balances on buckles slightly, his hips making an abortive motion forward as he tries to move counterpoint to Erik’s fingers—because while they feel good, it’s still not enough.

“Fuck me,” Charles grits out through clenched teeth, his entire body hot all over, even with the cold wall at his back, “come on, Erik—”

“Captain’s orders,” Erik says with a low laugh, sliding his fingers out of Charles’ ass with a wet squelch of flesh that makes Charles’ hole clench down on empty air, desperate and wanting. “If they could see Captain Charles Xavier now, at the mercy of a smuggler,” he breathes, and Charles shivers in Erik’s grip. “Hold onto my shoulders, _schatz_.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what that means,” Charles demands, even as he reaffirms his grip on Erik’s broad shoulders, eyes trained on the way Erik slathers his own cock with the rest of the oil still left on his hand.

Erik hums noncommittally as he lifts Charles up by the hips, pressing him back down harder against the wall to brace him there while Charles gets his legs around either side of Erik’s waist. He jumps a little when Erik’s hands move down to squeeze his asscheeks, supporting him from there even as he spreads them open, lining his cock up with Charles’ hole.

They groan in unison as he sinks Charles down, and Charles will never grow tired of experiencing that first burning stretch of Erik penetrating him, pushing in past the ring of muscle to sheathe himself fully in Charles’ body, hot and hard and pressing up against all the right places inside him. Charles’ thighs squeeze Erik’s waist, his head thunking back against the wall again as his spine goes ramrod straight on its own accord, mouth falling open and panting.

Erik holds him steady, his grip on Charles never weakening nor threatening to fail, his real arm just as strong as his robotic arm. He pushes his cock up into Charles all the way, bottoming out when his balls brush against Charles’ ass, holding him there and giving him time to adjust. Charles tips his head down for a kiss, and it’s almost novel, in a way, to be in the position where he’s higher up than Erik, Erik leaning up to him for once rather than the other way around.

“You’re beautiful,” Erik murmurs when they part, and then he begins to move.

Whatever answer Charles thinks he might have come up with in response is swallowed by a moan as Erik thrusts up into him, Charles’ body bouncing slightly with the motion. He’s pinned against the wall and held splayed open by Erik’s body, with no choice but to hold on and just _take it_ , with no leverage whatsoever to either pull back or push forward.

Erik fucks him relentlessly, setting up a brutal pace at just the right angle, the fat head of his cock inside Charles nailing his prostate on every upthrust. Charles gasps out a small, wrecked noise every time, the sounds forcing themselves out past his lips unbidden, stomach muscles already seizing up as he curls forward against Erik, eyes closed and forehead resting against Erik’s clavicle. Pleasure flares up his spine with every forward snap of Erik’s hips, driving his cock in deep, radiating through him like a livewire, charged with electric heat. His own cock strains between them, brushing against Erik’s flat stomach and Charles is close, so close, to release.

“Let me see you,” Erik says breathlessly, his rhythm never faltering, “let me see you, Charles, I want to see you when you come for me.”

Charles leans back with a ragged gasp, just far enough for Erik to catch his lips in a messy kiss, their eyes meeting in mutual rapture and that’s all it takes—Erik bites down on Charles’ lower lip as he slams his hips up one last time and comes, hot stickiness spurting deep inside Charles’ ass, most of it leaking down immediately due to the angle. Charles follows suit with a muffled whimper, coming with his cock untouched between them and striping both of their chests with white as he shudders apart in Erik’s hold.

They stay as they are for a few moments, catching their breath in between slow, lazy kisses, sloppy and unhurried as they come down from their shared high. Erik’s cock slips out as it softens, making Charles squirm as more of Erik’s come drips out of his ass, feeling more than a little dirty and used, but Erik only chuckles, making him hold still and feel it.

“Put me down,” Charles says at last, trying to wiggle out of Erik’s grip even though he’s certain that his legs are far too shaky at the moment to support his weight. He’s already sore, but pleasantly so, most of the vaguely uncomfortable twinge drowned out by the happy contentedness that bubbles up in his chest, affectionate and relaxed.

Erik merely tightens his grip on Charles and then carefully pulls him back from the wall, carrying him over to the bed where he gently lays Charles out, depositing him on his back and crawling up beside him. Charles rolls onto his side and snuggles up against Erik, tucking himself beneath one of Erik’s arms, head resting against his shoulder, and stretches luxuriously, relishing in the burn of well-used muscles.

“You really want to know what it means?” Erik asks after a small silence, absently rubbing his thumb against Charles’ hip bone, head turned sideways so his nose is pressed against Charles’ hair, breathing him in.

“I’ve only been asking you for five years now,” Charles answers, but his voice holds no bite, his eyelids already drooping sleepily, his warm position cuddled up with Erik too comfortable for its own good. He could get used to this, he thinks idly, covering Erik’s hand with his own, he _has_ gotten used to this.

Erik chuckles again, no doubt amused by how pliant Charles is, something he’s endlessly fascinated by. He presses a small kiss against Charles’ temple, and they’ve come along way from wary first meetings and heartbreaking betrayal and carefully-mended forgiveness but Charles has never felt as if he’s tamed the ruthless pirate captain more right now than ever before.

“Treasure,” Erik answers him, and Charles feels finer than gold, priceless and brighter than starlight, cherished in Erik’s deft, strong hands, “ _you_ are my treasure.”

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Покоряя звёзды](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4490646) by [skela_black](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skela_black/pseuds/skela_black)




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